Ryker’s POV:
I don’t mean to stare.
But I do anyway.
She’s standing near the counter, black tracksuit hugging every curve like it was made for her. The fabric stretches over her hips, clings to her waist, outlines the soft dip of her lower back. It shouldn’t matter. It’s just a tracksuit.
Her blonde hair falls loose down her spine, brushed smooth, shining under the kitchen lights. A few strands spill over her shoulder when she tilts her head slightly — pale skin exposed where the collar dips just enough to show the elegant line of her throat.
Francesco steps in behind her.
His dark, messy hair hangs forward when he leans down, almost brushing her shoulder. Black strands hovering over her pale skin. His hand slides casually into her hair, fingers threading through it like he’s done i
