Rhys POV
Cara hadn’t heard me on the stairs. She was at the counter with her back to the door, the coffee going, sleeves pushed up to her elbows the way she did when she was somewhere she wasn’t thinking about being watched. She was reading something on her phone with the complete, focused attention she gave everything when she thought she was alone — head slightly bent, entirely still, not performing a single thing for anyone.
The ink stain on her wrist caught the morning light. It was always there, some version of it, the permanent mark of a person who thought in ink and thought constantly. It was one of the things about her that had surprised me since the wedding — this Cara, who had never once in five years of knowing her seemed like a woman who sketched on envelopes or had ink on he
