“For the pillow?” he asks, not looking at me.
I nod, but my eyes flick to the kitchen. “For everything.”
Graham still doesn’t face me. But his shoulders shift, tension easing just enough to tell me my words reached him. They mattered.
It feels domestic—exactly how Carson teased earlier. And I hate how much I enjoy it. No, not hate. I crave it. Really, really crave it.
Graham plates the food with quiet precision, then places each dish on the table. He doesn’t announce dinner, doesn’t bark orders—just murmurs, “It’s ready,” and moves to the other side of the table.
None of them move until I do.
Only when I stand—setting the heat pillow gently aside—do Carson and Hunter rise too, flanking me.
Graham steps behind a chair and pulls it out for me, the gentlemanly gesture catching me completely off guard. I slide into the seat, and when he pushes it back in, his hand brushing against my back, my heart gives a ridiculous little flutter.
This feels like a date.
A very strange, completely confusing, three-on-one kind of date.
But still.
I glance down at the food and blink. He’s made lemon-garlic butter chicken, roasted vegetables with herbs, and a pile of creamy mashed potatoes that smell delicious.
“Wow,” I say, eyebrows lifting. “This looks amazing.”
Carson plops down across from me and grins. “I told you. G’s been holding out.”
Graham slides into his own seat, not rising to the bait. “Eat before it gets cold.”
I take a bite of the chicken first, and immediately, my eyes flutter shut. It’s tender, juicy, bursting with flavor. The garlic and lemon are perfectly balanced, and the butter sauce? Don't get me started.
“Oh my God,” I moan, unable to help the sound.
The fork hovers near my mouth for a second bite, but I realize too late that three sets of eyes are on me.
The air shifts.
Hunter’s grip on his glass tightens. Carson’s grin grows slow and wicked. And Graham…Graham looks as if I just made his entire fucking week, even though he’s trying to hide it behind his stoic façade.
Carson leans back in his chair, stretching one arm over the back of mine lazily. “Well. Guess G’s on kitchen duty from now on.”
I arch a brow. “Why’s that?”
“Because I need to hear that sound out of you nightly, peaches.”
I choke on my next bite and glare at him while reaching for my water.
Graham finally speaks, his voice dry. “She’s going to stop eating entirely if you keep running your mouth.”
“She didn’t sound like she wanted to stop,” Carson quips.
Hunter exhales slowly; his lips twitch as he holds back his smile. “Leave her alone. Let her enjoy the food.”
“Oh, I’m letting her enjoy it,” Carson says, winking at me. “Just enjoying the show too.”
I roll my eyes and mutter, “You’re such a menace.”
But I take another bite of chicken anyway, and yes—I make another pleased sound. Just to mess with him. And also because it’s that good.
