She blinked, momentarily disoriented by the unfamiliar ceiling, the absurdly high thread count sheets, and the sunlight pouring through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Sebastian’s bedroom. Right.
A slow, satisfied ache hummed through her limbs. She stretched, wincing slightly, then smiled. There were worse ways to wake up than in the bed of a man who had clearly devoted himself to learning exactly how to ruin her—in the best possible way.
The spot beside her was empty, the sheets cool. But she could hear the quiet clink of pans from the kitchen.
After a brief debate, Harper reached for Sebastian’s dress shirt from the night before. It smelled like him—expensive cologne, clean cotton. She slipped it on, rolling up the sleeves, and padded barefoot toward the sound of sizzling.
What she found made her stop in the doorway.
The sight that greeted her was not one she’d expected. Sebastian Hawthorne, aristocrat, palace insider, and notorious playboy, was standing at a professional-grade stove, deftly flipping what appeared to be anomelet. He wore only black pyjama bottoms, slung low on his hips, his bare back a landscape of subtle muscle that shifted as he moved. Harper settled against the doorframe to appreciate the view. Sebastian shirtless in the kitchen was doing dangerous things to her ability to think clearly.
“Are you actually cooking?” she asked, moving further into the kitchen.
“I’m making omelets,” Sebastian said without looking up, executing a perfect fold that would have made a French chef weep. “It’s literally the only thing I can cook without burning down the building, but I make them exceptionally well.”
She moved further into the kitchen. “I didn’t realize cooking was part of the aristocratic skill set.”
“It’s not.” Sebastian slid the omelet onto a waiting plate, where it was joined by a slice of toasted sourdough. “But mothers are notoriously difficult to say no to, especially when they insist their sons should know how to cook at least one decent meal.”
Harper blinked. “You learned to cook from your mother?”
“Horrifying, isn’t it?” He handed her the plate. “Next you’ll discover I volunteer at animal shelters and read poetry.”
She arched a brow. “Do you?”
“Only under duress.” He grinned, then softened. “But yes, seriously—my mother taught me. In Paris we had a pretty normal life. Charles always thought she was too bohemian. Which, in his world, meant she read too much fiction and occasionally cooked her own meals.”
She nodded toward the plate. “Is this part of Operation: Don’t Screw This Up?”
“One hundred percent.” He offered a faint smile. “I remembered how you take your coffee, too. Black. No sugar.”
Harper glanced at the cup already waiting on the counter. “Points for memory.”
“And breakfast execution?” he asked, sliding onto the stool beside her, his own plate in hand.
She took a tentative bite and couldn’t quite suppress her sound of surprise. It was delicious—creamy and perfectly seasoned, the herbs fresh and bright.
“This is actually good,” she said, unable to keep the shock from her voice.
Sebastian placed a hand over his heart in mock offense. “I’m flattered by your suspicious praise.”
“Don’t get used to it.” But there was no heat behind it.
They ate in comfortable silence for a moment, knees brushing. The warmth between them wasn’t just physical now—it was something quieter, steadier. Less about tension. More about choice.
After a beat, Sebastian asked, “So. Hypothetically. If we did this again—would that be terrible?”
Harper studied him over the rim of her coffee mug. “You mean the part where you cook for me shirtless?”
“I was thinking more about everything that led to the cooking. But I’m open to multiple interpretations.”
She smiled. “I wouldn’t be opposed.”
Sebastian looked pleased. Then he said, more seriously, “We’ll keep it quiet. I’m still getting more media attention than I’d like—I want to figure this out without everyone watching.”
“I know.” She hesitated, then added, “I want the space too. If this is real, I don’t want it defined by headlines.”