Page 16 of The SEAL's Duchess
For the first time today, George really looked at her. His expression softened. “God, Ivy, I’m sorry. Look at you—you’re pale as anything.” He stepped to her side, his arm sliding around her waist. “Of course we’re done. I should have insisted on taking you back immediately.”
She leaned into his familiar warmth, breathing in his scent of leather and the butterscotch sweets he always carried. This was her George—the one who worried about her, not just what she could do for him.
But over his shoulder, she caught Ryder watching her with unreadable eyes.
She looked away, chasing off the dangerous ghost of his arms around her—as if, for one impossible moment, she’d mattered.
8
The flightback to shore felt endless—like they were crossing the whole Gulf of Alaska. Ryder kept his eyes on Ivy through the intercom chatter and the thrum of the rotors.
Standard procedure.
Head injuries required monitoring. Pupils, reflexes, alertness. He knew the checklist cold. None of it covered the way his jaw locked every time she flinched at the helicopter’s vibration.
She sat across from him in the jump seat, pale against the orange survival vest, George’s hand wrapped around hers where it rested on her knee. The sight of their joined fingers hit him low and dumb. Completely irrational. They were siblings, for Christ’s sake. But his gut didn’t care about logic.
It wasn’t George who’d lifted her off the rig deck or felt her weight against his chest, her hair brushing his jaw, her clean scent of citrus and saltwater cutting through the reek of fuel.
That had been him, and he couldn’t shake it. The memory of her softness was burned into his arms, like his body refused to let it go.
He forced his gaze out of the window, where storm clouds built into towering walls of purple and black.
Wyatt’s voice crackled over the headset, requesting priority landing. Routine. Nothing about this flight should feel different from a hundred others.
But it did.
Because of her.
His eyes drifted back again. Ivy’s head rested against the seat, her hair mussed from the hard hat, blonde strands escaping from what had probably started as a perfect arrangement. Grease stained her expensive suit where she’d hit the deck.
She looked breakable in her harness, a scrape marring her jaw. Ryder’s fists curled tight on his knees.
“Approaching Aurora Cove,” Wyatt announced. “ETA five minutes.”
Through the windows, the coastline came into view—waves breaking higher against the rocks as the weather rolled in. The town looked smaller from up here, more vulnerable.
Like her.
Despite the crosswinds, Wyatt brought them in smoothly. Ryder was out of his harness first, leaning toward her. “How are you feeling?” His hands brushed her wrist as he helped with the buckle, automatically checking her pulse. Rapid but regular.
“Like I’ve been hit by a truck,” she offered a thin smile. “But better than I did an hour ago.”
“Good. Any dizziness?”
She shook her head carefully.
“If it gets worse—any nausea, blurred vision—you go straight to a doctor. No arguments.”
“I will.”
Outside the 407, George hurried to her side, fussing like he could shield her with words alone. “Ivy. You sure you’re okay to walk? We can grab a cab to the Inn, get you settled.”
“Actually, I can give you both a ride,” Ryder said. “I’ll grab your luggage and get you to the hotel. It’s on my way home.”
What the hell, Ryder?
Aurora Cove Inn was fifteen minutes in the opposite direction.
