He pulls it from the oven. The crust glistens under the kitchen lights, golden and flaky.
“Youmadethat?” I ask, because surely there’s a Deliveroo bag hiding just out of sight.
“I did.” He places it on the counter, wiping his hands on a kitchen towel. “I wasn’t sure how it would turn out. I’ll admit I had a . . . practice run.”
I gape at him. “You did atrial runof a Wellington?For me?”
He shrugs.
I stare at the Wellington. I stare at him.
Jesus Christ.This man.
Heat rises up my neck, a disorienting mix of admiration and panic. I feel undeserving of this level of effort. “Now I feel extra bad about what I said outside the church. About you asking me out and me goading you into taking me to the opera.”
“So you should. I bloody hate the opera. I only have a box for networking.”
I bite back a smile. “You’re . . . incredibly thoughtful, you know that? How did you even have time to do all this?”
He meets my gaze, steady and sure. “You can always make time.”
I swallow hard, my chest tightening around something I don’t quite know what to do with.
“Let’s eat in the dining area,” he says, lifting the tray.
I follow him, trying—failing—to shake the ridiculous warmth spreading through my chest.
Dinner is done. Plates pushed aside. The last dregs of wine swirling in our glasses. The dining table, designed to seat ten people, is comically oversized for just the two of us. Very grown-up. Smooth jazz hums from hidden speakers—a sound that makes me feel like I should be wearing diamonds instead of, well . . . nothing underneath this skirt.
The whole atmosphere is . . . refined. Elegant. Almost unnerving.
And yet, I feel relaxed.
Edward has loosened up too. But he has no idea my delicate bits are bare against his leather seat.
He’s always a gentleman, but as the evening’s gone on, I’ve started to really notice just how posh and educated he is. It’s not something he tries to be. It’s simply him. The way he phrases things. The books he references in passing. The effortless way he pronounces French wine labels I wouldn’t even attempt.
It’s a little terrifying.
Thankfully, we’ve managed to avoid politics.So far.Although if he does suddenly ask me what I think of the chancellor, at least I now know who he is andsort ofwhat he does. Small victories.
Instead, we talk about our days. Our favorite spots in London.
His? Moody wine bars. Historic bookshops. Places where people discuss philosophy over glasses of Burgundy.
Mine? Rooftop beer gardens. The best late-night kebab spots. Places where someone cries or fights in the smoking area.
We even talk about Sophia’s wedding, a conversation filled with thinly veiledwhat the fuck is happeningundercurrents. He doesn’t say it outright, but I can tell he thinks she’s taking it too far—pushed and prodded by Mrs. Cavendish, the ultimate puppet master.
“I put my foot down when it came to my own wedding,” he says, swirling his wine. “Do you remember it?” He glances at me. “Your mother went.”
“I do,” I say softly. “It looked like something out of a fairytale.”
His fingers tighten subtly around his glass. “I apologize for bringing up my late wife. I may not be particularly experienced at this, but evenIknow that’s probably not great date material.”
I reach across the table, covering his hand with mine. “Don’t be silly. Of course you can talk about her. She was a lovelywoman. She was a big part of your life.” I hesitate, then add, “Is, I guess,” suddenly unsure if I’ve just shoved my foot into my mouth.
He smiles sadly.
