CHAPTER 21
IVY
Soren leans forward slightly, palms on the counter. “You could stay here.”
I blink. My stomach turns. “Soren?—”
“Don’t,” he says quietly.
And something in my body reacts instantly, like it recognizes the tone.
He softens his expression again, like he’s aware he just tightened the leash.
He reaches out, touches my wrist gently. “I’m serious. You could stay,” he says. “You’d be welcome.” He gestures around. “There’s plenty of space. And the company isn’t half bad, either.”
I pull my wrist back instinctively…
Soren’s eyes flicker. He watches the movement. Then he smiles faintly, like he finds it amusing. “You’re still scared,” he murmurs.
My throat tightens. “I’m not scared.”
His smile widens. “You are,” he says. “And you don’t have to be. You should realize that by now.”
I stare at him. The huge kitchen suddenly feels much smaller, the air thicker. I swallow. “I can’t just… move here,” I say. “I’m not even thinking clearly right now.”
Soren’s expression shifts.
And there it is. The first crack. The faintest shadow of irritation.
Then he covers it. Fast. So fast I almost convince myself I imagined it. He nods slowly, like he’s being patient. “Okay,” he says. “Then don’t move here.”
Relief loosens my chest.
Then he adds—“Just stay a little longer.”
I look at him. “I can’t,” I say. “I have things to do.”
He tilts his head. “What things?”
It’s a simple question. But it doesn’t feel simple—it feels like a test.
I hesitate.
And he sees my pause. His mouth curves. “Exactly,” he says softly.
“I have… work,” I say, my cheeks burning.
He laughs under his breath. “Work,” he echoes. “Ivy, you’re falling apart. You need rest.”
Rest. Again. Rest always sounds like care until it becomes permission.
And he knows my job is remote. He knows I know he knows that. The point is moot. But it was the first thing that popped into my head and I blurted it out as a way to deflect his invitation. Simple as that.
Soren walks toward me slowly, like he’s approaching something skittish.
He stops close enough that I have to tilt my head up to look at him. His eyes are sharper this morning. Less softened by wine and candlelight. Less romantic. More focused.
He reaches out and tucks a strand of hair behind my ear. Gentle. Familiar. Too familiar. “You’re not leaving,” he says softly.