I woke to the smell of coffee and the soft morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the penthouse. For a moment, I didn't know where I was. The bed was too big, the sheets too soft, the silence too complete. Then I remembered. Dulwich. The penthouse. The contract. The new reality.
I rolled over and saw her, a silhouette against the sprawling panorama of the London skyline. Emma was in the kitchen, wearing one of my oversized training shirts the Palace crest sitting just above her hip and a pair of short cotton shorts that showed off her long, athletic legs.
Her fiery red hair was piled in a messy bun, loose strands falling against the back of her neck, and she was humming to herself as she moved between the counter and the stove, a low, happy sound that filled the quiet of the morning.
