"Love doesn't come with a beauty clause."
Morning poured through the suite in soft, golden streaks, painting the walls and rumpled sheets in a lazy watercolor of light.
Ava blinked awake, the scent of fresh coffee already curling through the air, warm and rich.
She yawned, stretching languidly across the empty bed—only to find the spot beside her already cool.
She pushed herself up on one elbow and saw him.
Ryan.
Standing barefoot at the minibar, shirtless, wearing nothing but a pair of low, black pajama pants that clung criminally low on his hips.
His hair was a wreck of soft waves.
His back muscles shifted as he fiddled with the coffee machine's confusing Korean buttons, brow furrowed in sleepy concentration.
Ava's mouth went dry.
Because this—this ridiculous, beautiful, completely unaware man—was somehow hers.
Without thinking, she slid out of bed, padding silently across the polished floor.
