There’s a knock at the door just as El is smoothing the tablecloth. Her heart jumps, and she hurries across the cottage, wiping her palms on her dress before opening it.
Ryker stands there. With roses.
Her knees nearly buckle.
“Thank you, Ryker,” she breathes, taking them carefully. “No one has ever gotten me flowers before.”
Something flickers in his eyes — anger at her past, tenderness for her present — but he follows her inside without comment. She lifts the roses to her face, inhaling their soft sweetness, then finds a vase, fills it with water, and sets the bouquet on the counter like it’s something sacred.
“Please sit,” she says, trying to steady her voice. “Food is ready.”
She brings him his plate first, then grabs her own. When she asks, “Wine?” he nods, and she pours them ea
