She shivered and didn’t answer.
He drove with no explanations, and she didn’t waste her breath asking. She’d find out where he was taking her when they got there.
His hand stayed on her leg the whole time, possessive, but that was fine. She liked being owned by him.
When he pulled into a narrow lot tucked between brick buildings in the art district, she blinked.
“Wait, this is—”
“High Tea & Crumpet. Yes.” Silas cut the engine and turned toward her, smirking. “We’re going to sip overpriced Earl Grey and eat cucumber sandwiches while you pretend to be a well-behaved lady. Think you can manage?”
“I can try, Sir.” she grinned. “No promises.”
He led her in with a hand at her back. Inside, the teahouse was absurdly perfect, with mismatched floral China, delicate lace curtains, and soft classical music playing under the gentle clink of teacups and conversation. A hostess in pearls seated them near a window and handed them menus like folded parchment.
Willow glanced around. “Boone and Kenny would hate this.”
“That’s why they’re not here.”
She smiled and let him order — a full tower service with tiny sandwiches, fresh-baked scones, and the “Winter Wonderland” tea blend he pronounced as if he were making fun of it. But he sipped it with every appearance of pleasure, pinky not raised but implied.
Willow picked up a triangle of egg salad on rye and took a careful bite.
Silas watched her. “Chew slowly. People are watching.”
“They are not,” she whispered.
“They absolutely are. You’re the only woman here whose dress fits likethat.”
She flushed, but she didn’t stop eating.
They lingered over warm scones, clotted cream, and spiced apple jam. He reached across the table, wiped a dab of jam from her lower lip with his thumb, and brought it to her mouth.
“Clean it,” he said softly.
She took his thumb between her lips and sucked, and his eyes flared enough to awake something dark inside her.
“I’m sure there’s a joke somewhere about a wolf in a teahouse, but thank you for bringing me, Sir.”
“You love it.”
She smiled. “I really do.”
They finished the sweets — mini yule logs, peppermint bark shortbread, eggnog truffles, and gingerbread petit fours — and sat back in the afternoon light, her hand in his across the white-linen table.
“They have themed teas in spring,” he said.
She raised a brow. “Like what?”
“Bridgerton. Jane Austen. Mad Hatter.”
“Seriously?”
“Oh yes,” he said smoothly. “We’re going to them all.”
She sighed. “I’ll need themed dresses, and maybe a little warning next time.”
He reached for her hand and kissed the backs of her fingers one by one. “You don’t get to give orders. You’ll come when and where you’re told.”
