I turned and walked away fast, robe swishing around my thighs. I locked my bedroom door and leaned against it, breathing hard.

This was going to be a long two weeks.

The next morning I woke up to the smell of coffee. Stellan was already in the kitchen, making breakfast like he owned the place. Which, technically, his dad did.

He wore only gray sweatpants. No shirt. His back muscles moved as he flipped eggs. I stared longer than I should have.

“Morning, princess,” he said without turning around.

“Stop calling me that.”

He glanced over his shoulder, eyes tracing my sleep shorts and tank top. “Sleep well?”

“Better than...