“I don’t want a saint,” I say. “I want truth. And breakfast.”
His laugh is genuine. He dips his head and kisses my forehead—gentle and precise. It slides into me like a promise I didn’t know I wanted.
We clear the plates together, like two people who have done it before. He dries; I stack. There’s a world where this is the whole story: eggs, laughter, a man washing a pan with sleeves pushed up while I lean against the counter and talk about darts and bustles. That world doesn’t exist for us. But in this room, for a slice of the morning, it does, and I decide to keep it.
“Thank you for the machine,” I say, nodding upstairs.
He glances that way. “You’re welcome,” he says.
His phone sits face-down on the counter. It buzzes once, then goes still. He doesn’t pick it up.
“What happens next?” I ask.
“Next you show me the machine so I can pretend I understand it. Then I make calls in the office and keep you where I can see you. Tonight we spend the evening together. If you want.”
“If I want,” I repeat. The choice is real. I can hear it in his tone.
“If you want,” he says again, a contract sealed with repetition.
I rinse my mug and set it in the rack, then wipe my hands. I turn back and lean my hip into the island.
“I want to sit at your desk and sketch while you work,” I say. “I want to pretend I’m not listening and listen anyway. I want the names of Clara’s guards by the time I text her this afternoon.”
“Bolton and Ortiz,” he says quickly. “You’ll meet them soon.”
I smile.
He reaches out slowly, so I can throw a flag if I need to and tucks a loose piece of hair behind my ear. His fingers linger at my jaw for a second too long. The ribbon is soft at my wrist.
“Truth,” he says quietly.
“Truth,” I echo.
We stand there in the warm kitchen lit brightly by the snow outside and let the morning be slow.
He’s still who he is. I’m still who I am.
I think of the baby.
“Teach me,” he says, glancing toward the skillet, his mouth turning into a crooked grin.
I hand him the whisk and stand behind him, my arms coming around his waist, guiding his wrist through steady circles. “Gentle,” I say. “Confident. Don’t scramble. Coax.”
“Coax,” he repeats, doing exactly what I tell him. For once, the man who commands every room he enters lets himself be taught.
It lands warmer than it should. It lands exactly where I need it.
CHAPTER 29
CASSANDRA
Damien’s sleeves are still rolled up, his forearms flexing as he wipes down the skillet again with a precision that’s almost comical.
All I can do is watch and admire. There’s something about the way he does things that pulls me in, makes me drool a little.
“Careful,” I say, nudging his hip with mine, “you’ll polish that pan into oblivion.” He glances over, his mouth twitching in that quiet way that feels like a secret just for me. The morning has been perfect. It’s intoxicating.
His eyes catch mine and the air shifts. He sets the skillet down, palms pressing into the marble island. I feel the weight of his gaze like a touch.
