Her face heated.

  Andy sat up again, deliberately casual, like he hadn't just set fire to her bloodstream. He plucked a strawberry from the tray and held it up, offering it between his fingers.

  "Now," he said brightly, as if nothing at all had just passed between them, "shall Lord Ashbourne read to you, or would you prefer he start with a sonnet and work his way into scandal?"

  Summer stared at him, dazed and red-faced, then slowly took the strawberry from his hand and bit into it.

  "This should be illegal," she muttered around a mouthful. "You're way too powerful like this."

  Andy winked. "Good thing I'm only dangerous to you."

  He reached for the worn paperback she'd buried at the bottom of her overnight bag, and flipped it open with a theatrical flourish. He settled beside her, legs stretched out, one arm resting casually along the headboard behind her shoulders. His sleeve brushed against her skin every time he turned a page.

  Summer munched on a muffin, watching him warily, like she wasn't sure if he was about to read actual smut or make a ridiculous voice.

  Andy cleared his throat dramatically. "Let's see," he mused, flipping ahead. "Ah. Here we go. Chapter fifteen. Mid-scandal. High stakes. And the viscount's resolve... is hanging by a thread."

  Summer's lips twitched. "You're actually doing this."

  "As promised," Andy said with mock solemnity, eyes glittering. "Now hush, or you'll ruin the tension." And then he read.

  Not in a caricature voice, not with silliness or detachment — but low and smooth, just a hint of gravel at the edges, like he was whispering secrets into candlelight. The words unfurled from him, warm and vivid, each sentence delivered with the care of someone who respected the language, who knew exactly how to draw heat from restraint.

  Summer stilled as he read about fingers brushing bare skin, about a stolen kiss in the shadows of an evening garden, about the tension in the viscount's jaw as he warred with himself over desire and duty. Andy read it like poetry, threading emotion between the lines. His voice dipped at all the right places, lingered on the word thigh, made shudder feel like a tactile experience.

  Summer slowly lowered her muffin to the plate. Her face had gone very pink.

  Andy glanced at her sideways, not missing a thing. "Should I stop?"

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  "No," she said too quickly.

  He grinned, but kept reading. One passage in particular — a particularly breathless scene involving an impromptu tryst in a library — made her shift in her seat and pull the blanket higher around her chest like it might buffer her from the sheer intensity of hearing him say the word arch with such devastating precision.

  When he finally closed the book with a decisive little snap, Summer was fully flushed and staring at the tray of half-finished breakfast like she'd forgotten how food worked.

  Andy leaned in and purred against her ear, "Tell me you'll never look at Regency romance the same way again."

  "You menace."

  He laughed, the rich, delighted sound wrapping around her like velvet. "You say that like it's new."

  She groaned, falling back into the pillows. "If Lord Ashbourne offers to escort me to the ballroom, I might just combust."

  Andy tossed the book aside and reclined next to her, fingers brushing hers. "Ballroom or bath, library or garden, scandal or sincerity," he said softly. "Wherever you want me, Summer. That's where I'll be."

  Summer turned her head toward him slowly, one eyebrow raised, cheeks still flushed from the literary dramatics. "So... am I supposed to put the gown back on now?"

  Andy, lying beside her in full Regency finery like he'd been conjured from a particularly well-funded BBC miniseries, let the question hang for a second. Then, with an expression equal parts devilish and solemn, he replied, "That would depend entirely on what scene we're in."

  Summer snorted. "You're impossible."

  "But tailored," he countered, gesturing down his own length with a lazy wave of his hand. "And tragically under-accessorized, if we're being honest."

  She propped herself up on one elbow, the blanket slipping just enough to make his eyes flick downward. "Okay then, Lord Ashbourne," she said, drawing out the name. "Say I put it back on. The couture gown, shoes, jewellery. What happens next? Are we ballroom-bound? Is there scandal in the drawing room? Or do I simply get dramatically ruined on a fainting couch?"

  Andy made a show of pondering it, tapping one finger against his lips. "All noble options. But I suspect the lady would be far more entertained if she didn't have to wear heels while being scandalized."

  "I knew you were bluffing."

  "No, no, I adore the gown," he said, leaning in, his voice dropping again to that velvet timbre. "But I adore you more. And right now, you're radiant just like this. Hair messy, no shoes, flushed from fiction and baked goods. If I were writing the next chapter, I'd say the gown returns for evening dramatics, and right now... you stay just like this. Or maybe," he added with a slow grin, "you wear my shirt."

  Summer groaned. "Why is that so much worse?"

  Andy feigned innocence. "Worse?"

  "In a good way," she muttered, trying to hide her face behind the blanket again.

  He laughed and tugged it down gently. "Summer."

  She peeked at him.

  "You're the fantasy," Andy said simply. "Everything else is just dressing the part."

  Summer whispered, laughter still tangled in her voice, "You keep saying I'm the fantasy."

  Andy arched a brow, smug in that slow, lazy way he'd perfected. "Because you are."

  She tilted her head, eyes sparkling. "We are each other's fantasy, Andy."

  A smile broke across his face — slow, surprised, utterly undone. For a man so practised in seduction, so fluent in fantasy, that sentence seemed to land somewhere deep and quiet.

  "Say that again," he murmured.

  Summer smiled, brushing his hair back from his face. "We are each other's fantasy."