The meal was eaten in near-total silence. The steaks were perfect—juicy, seasoned, cooked exactly how she liked—but they tasted like ash in her mouth. Ryker ate mechanically, eyes on his plate, answering her occasional attempts at small talk with grunts or single syllables. Every time their eyes met across the table, the air crackled. He looked away first every single time.

Afterward she offered to clean up. He let her, retreating to the living room where he turned on a baseball game at low volume and nursed a beer. Rebekah took her time in the kitchen, hips swaying a little more than necessary when she knew he could see her...