Ella stood at the kitchen island the next morning, nursing a cup of coffee that had gone lukewarm. Sleep had been impossible after that kiss. Every time she closed her eyes, she felt Lucas’s hand on her face, the surprising gentleness of his mouth, the way her body had betrayed her by leaning in.
It was just for the cameras, she reminded herself for the hundredth time. But her heart wasn’t listening.
She heard his footsteps before she saw him. Lucas entered the kitchen in gray sweatpants and a plain white T-shirt, hair still damp from the shower. The sight of him like this—unguarded, domestic—hit her harder than any suited version ever had. He looked… human.
“Morning,” he said, voice rough with sleep. He reached for the coffee pot, his arm brushing hers. The contact sent warmth spreadin
