Algerone stood in the doorway, leaning on his cane. He'd chosen casual clothes for tonight, dark jeans that pulled across his thighs when he shifted weight off his damaged hip, a button-down with sleeves rolled to expose forearms I'd memorized during eighteen months of massage therapy. His silver hair fell across his forehead instead of being slicked back.
"Everything's on schedule," I said.
A lie. The sauce needed another four minutes, but the bread needed attention now. If I left the sauce, it would over-reduce. If I ignored the bread, it would burn.
"So that's why you've been standing over that plate for seven minutes?"
"The presentation matters." I turned back to the stove, adjusting the flame. "First impressions establish psychological frameworks that persist throughout interpersonal encounters."
His cane tapped against the marble as he crossed toward me. He was favoring the left side more than this morning. The barometric pressure was dropping. He'd need additional anti-inflammatories before the flight.
"It's dinner with my kids, not a Pentagon briefing."
"Your children already have substantial reasons to despise me." I opened the oven to check the bread. "Xander rearranged my face last week. This meal needs to be perfect."
"Perfect?" He stopped behind me, close enough that his scent reached me, Tom Ford Oud Wood, the cologne he'd switched to after the explosion. I'd ordered three bottles last month when I noticed his supply running low. "Like everything you do?"
"Strategic." I closed the oven and turned to face him, wooden spoon held between us like a barrier. "Anthropological studiesconfirm communal eating establishes trust pathways across existing conflicts—"
"You're manipulating my children with meat pie."
"Facilitating, not manipulating."
His mouth curved, something smaller and more private than the boardroom smile. "Would you prefer to send PowerPoint slides instead?"
I laughed, and his expression warmed.
"Need any help?" He put a hand on my hip.
"No." I struggled to keep my voice even as his thumb stroked me gently. "I have everything under control."
"Clearly." His hand slid beneath my shirt, palm flat against bare skin. He pulled me back against his chest, his erection pressing against the base of my spine. "That's why your heart's racing like you're facing a firing squad."
"This matters." I gripped the counter edge as his fingers traced my waistband. "Your sons deserve—"
"What about what I deserve?" His teeth found my earlobe.
The wooden spoon clattered against the stovetop. His other hand found my nipple through the shirt fabric, pinching until I gasped. The sauce. I needed to check the sauce.
His mouth moved to my throat, teeth scraping where bruises from last week had finally faded.
"Algerone." It was half plea, half protest. "I need to focus."
"You're very attractive when you're domestic." His lips traced the spot behind my ear that made my knees threaten to buckle.
A timer shrieked.
The bread. I'd lost track of the bread.
Smoke wisped from the oven door. I wrenched free, yanking the door open. The loaf had transformed from golden to charcoal. Fifteen minutes of proofing and shaping, destroyed because I couldn't maintain focus while his hand was on my cock.
I slammed the burnt remains onto the counter. "You sabotaged my bread. Deliberately."
"I wanted to see what would happen." He leaned against the counter, eyes dark. "Seeing you flustered is enticing."
"This is not a game, Algerone." I heard the sharpness in my own words and didn't care. "I've spent hours on this meal."
"My sons won't judge you on bread."
