The kitchen smelled like butter and coffee and Eliana stood barefoot on the cool tile floor, wearing one of Renee's oversized shirts and a pair of sleep shorts that barely stayed in place.
Her hair was twisted up in a lazy bun. Her body was tired, but her hands moved automatically—eggs sizzling, pan warming, toast popping from the stainless steel toaster.
The private chef wasn't coming today. Luca had texted something about an afterglow hangover and told everyone to "fend for themselves, or die trying."
So here she was. Cooking. Trying not to think and failing hard.
She kept on stirring and making herself busy while trying to ignore the ache between her thighs and the memory of Nicky's mouth.
She hadn't slept much.
Not with the way her body wouldn't settle. Not with how everything still pulsed with last night's touch.
She flipped the eggs.
Tried to think about nothing.
