ISABELLE
I walked into the dining room, my phone still in my hand.
Matt was seated at the head of the table, shirtless, wearing only grey joggers that hung low on his hips. Breakfast was already laid out—eggs, toast, fresh fruit, coffee—but he hadn’t touched any of it. Instead, he was typing something on his phone, his brow slightly furrowed.
He looked up when I entered, his eyes tracking over me—taking in his white dress shirt that barely reached mid-thigh on me, my bare legs, my probably still-messy hair.
Then his expression shifted. Concern flickered across his face.
Matt set his phone down and pushed his chair back slightly, gesturing for me to come closer.
I crossed to him, and he pulled me down onto his lap, his arms wrapping around my waist.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his thum
