AVA MONROE'S POV
The morning after Ethan kissed me lingered in the air like perfume, faint, unshakable, and suspiciously sweet.
I told myself it was nothing.
A slip. A show for the audience. A distraction from the rumors threatening to eat us alive.
But it stayed with me, like his cologne, like his eyes, like the strange tightness in my chest I hadn't felt since I was seventeen and naïve enough to think kisses meant something.
I woke to the sound of glass clinking. Not in the hallway, but in my room.
My door creaked open, and there he was.
Ethan.
Holding a silver tray with two espresso cups and a plate of
croissants.
"I made breakfast," he said simply.
I blinked at him. "You made breakfast?"
"I supervised."
"That sounds more believable."
He stepped inside, completely ignoring the fact that I was still in a robe, hair a mess, sleep in my eyes.
"Is this part of the contract?" I asked, suspicious.
"No." He placed the tray on the table. "This is part of the apology."
