Only when we burn

The kitchen was flooded with golden morning light and the unmistakable smell of something beginning to char. Jackson’s hands slid beneath the hem of my oversized T-shirt, his T-shirt that is, as he backed me against the counter, lips brushing slow, lazy kisses along my neck. The coffee pot gurgled in protest. A spatula clattered to the floor. Neither of us noticed. “You’re burning the eggs,” I murmured, breathless, though I made no move to stop him. “They’re not the only thing I want to devour,” he whispered against my collarbone, fingers tightening around my hips. I laughed, threading my fingers into the still-damp strands of his hair. He had showered not long ago, and he smelled like trouble. “You’ve got a one-track mind, Dr. Ivory.” He grinned against my skin. “Guilty.” A loud sizzle from the stove made me jump. I twisted to look, but Jackson was already there, flipping the pan off the burner with ease. He turned back around, looking smug. “Crisis averted.” I raised a brow. “You sure? Because I think we just sacrificed breakfast to your libido.” Right on cue, Nate wandered in from the hallway, barefoot and bleary-eyed, his phone in one hand, brow furrowed. “Jesus, what is that smell? Did you guys try to cook or stage a kitchen fire?” Jackson sighed and stepped away, his hands lingering on my hips a second longer before moving to the sink. I tugged the T-shirt back down, cheeks warm, not from embarrassment, but from the still-new thrill of feeling so…wanted. So his. “Then stop ambushing us,” Jackson muttered, flipping on the kitchen fan. Nate scanned the room, Jackson shirtless, me flushed and barefoot, the pan still smoking like a bonfire, and shook his head. “This is what happens when you mix s*x and scrambled eggs. Just pick a lane.” “Don’t act like this is the weirdest thing you’ve seen before coffee,” I said, smiling at my best friend. “It’s top five. And I’m starting to develop trauma from waking up to your boyfriend’s bare chest every day.” Before we could fire back, Jackson’s phone buzzed on the counter. He glanced at the screen, and just like that, his whole vibe changed. Barely, but enough. A flicker in his eyes, a stiffness in his jaw. He picked up the phone to answer, his voice carefully even, “Kristina.” One hand pressed against the counter, the other to the back of his neck. “Yeah,” he said. “We’re leaving first thing tomorrow…. Don’t worry. We’ll be there.” He ended the call and set the phone down, his posture smoothing out, smile back in place like it had never left. “What was that about?” I asked, drying my hands on a dish towel, trying to sound casual. He shrugged, but I caught the way his shoulders didn’t quite relax. “Kris is just reminding me about the party in Seine Valley.” Tomorrow night was the Fourth of July bash, fireworks, fine wine, and the fifteenth anniversary of the winery’s flagship vintage. The event was a big deal. And for Jackson, showing up wasn’t a choice. His family still ran the place, and though he didn’t say much about it, I could tell something about it unsettled him. “You okay?” I asked softly. Jackson leaned in and kissed my temple. “Of course.” Nate poured himself some coffee, the only thing not scorched this morning, and flopped into a barstool beside me. Jackson glanced over at him, tone easy. “Speaking of—have you packed yet?” “Almost,” Nate lied. “And Aarti?” “She finishes work late tonight. But knowing her, she’ll be here bright and early, knocking our door down,” I answered. “Cool.” His voice stayed light, but his fingers tapped a steady rhythm on the counter. And for just a moment, I wondered if tomorrow might stir up more than just old vintages and fireworks.