Charlotte had no time to react as Robert swooped down and expertly pressed his lips to hers, eliciting a surprised squeak as he slipped a hand to her waist to pull her in close. She was stiff and nervous to start but soon relaxed under the gentle insistence of Robert’s warm mouth. The kiss was slow—soft and drugging—and she was set adrift within it. She was sure this was how Robert intended it. Even with him holding back she could still feel his want for her, the hint that there was so much more waiting for her when she was ready. She swore to pull away but ended up leaning into him farther when he was the one who drew back, but only just barely.

“Much better,” he whispered, his nose brushing along hers. “I’m looking forward to the next couple of weeks, Charlotte. Let the games begin.”

9

I’m drawn out of sleep by the sweet smell of pancakes. Breathing the aroma in, I roll off my stomach and onto my back, rubbing my eyes with the cuffs of my thick woolly sweater that hangs well past my wrists. If I didn’t have it on, I probably would have gotten frostbite last night. Ryan legitimately sleeps in an ice cave.

The clock beside my bed reads 7:18 a.m. If pancakes really are happening and it’s not just my bottomless pit of an appetite dreaming it up, then that means Ryan is now a morning person. Yet another reason why any relationship between us would be doomed for failure.

I drag myself out of bed and head stealthily into the bathroom, sneaking by without Ryan seeing me. Thankfully, Duke has vacated the premises, so we can forgo any power struggle. I turn on the faucet and throw a few handfuls of water onto my face until I’m fully awake.

Once dried, I give myself a once-over in the mirror and I can feel my skin beginning to thaw. Ryan must have put the thermostat back to normal. I take off my sweater to reveal a sleek heather-gray pajama shirt with matching pants that Jen got me for Christmas last year.

I quickly brush my hair and teeth and I stride out into the living room before I can rethink it.

“Pancakes?” I ask in my hoarse morning voice. I’m about to say more but am quickly overpowered by the smell of something burning. As in full-fledged burning.

I look to Ryan, dressed in khaki shorts and a navy T-shirt, as he pivots around in front of the stove, completely frazzled. Holding a spatula in one hand, he waves the other back and forth over a smoking frying pan. “I may have burnt the bacon,” he says.

“I can see that. It was nice of you to try, though.” I cross the room to push the windows open behind my desk, hoping to help air out the space.