As if she had been waiting.
Because she knew I would come.
Because I always did.
“Clara came out of the bath pretty wiped out,” she explained quickly, before I could say anything. “The kitchen chaos drained the last of her energy. I laid her on the couch with a blanket—she passed out in less than five minutes.”
I nodded slowly, stepping closer.
“And the cake?”
“I’m trying to make a real one now.” She shot me a quick, teasing look. “Without a fire hazard this time.”
“Can I help?” I offered, my tone lighter than the ache in my chest.
She raised an eyebrow immediately—suspicious and amused.
“As sous-chef?”
“I promise I won’t overdo the lemon zest this time.”
Valentina laughed. Softly. Almost silently.
The kind of laugh I could listen to every day for the rest of my life and never get tired of.
“You really think you’re getting promoted in this kitchen after nearly blowing up my oven?”
“I have faith,” I replied, half-smiling.
“Take that faith to the living room then.” She went back to stirring, trying not to smile. “Tonight, I’m not planning to burn the house down.”
I took another step toward her.
At the same moment, she moved too—reaching for a spoon while lifting one leg slightly for balance.
It didn’t work.
The floor was still slick—a remnant of our earlier culinary disaster—and her foot slipped.
I moved on instinct.
In a heartbeat, my arms were around her—solid, steady—keeping her from falling. One arm firm at her waist. The other supporting her back.
Body to body.
Heat against heat.
Valentina sucked in a sharp breath.
So did I.
Our faces were dangerously close. Close enough to count her lashes, to feel her quick, shallow breaths against my mouth.
She lifted her eyes to mine, looking like someone staring straight at an entire past—and the unavoidable danger of the present.
“Do you still hate me?” The question escaped my mouth before I could stop it, my voice lower than intended, threaded with desperation.
She took her time. Then answered.
