Ayla
The smell of something warm and buttery coaxed me awake after the sunlight rose. For a moment, I thought I was dreaming—my head was still heavy, aching faintly from last night—but then I noticed the faint clinking of cutlery, the sound of a pan scraping gently across the stove.
I pushed myself up from the bed, the sheets tangled around my legs, and squinted toward the doorway. The door was half-open, letting the soft glow of morning spill into the room. From where I stood, I could see Rhett at the small dining table, an apron tied around his lean frame, his broad shoulders moving with an odd rhythm as he sliced something. His chin… oh God, his chin was smeared with butter.
I forgot, for a second, about the dull throb in my head. It was so strange—Rhett, the man who always seemed to
