I watch her twirl the pasta around her fork with near-reverence. She takes a bite and lets out a low, throaty sound that makes me forget how to chew.
“Oh my god,” she says, eyes wide. “This is amazing.”
I grin, proud. “Told you—I’m a man of many talents.”
She smirks. “That’s usually something men say when they’re talking about what’s in their pants.”
I wink. “That too.”
She laughs—really laughs—and it’s the first time all day she looks like herself again. The tight lines around her eyes start to soften. Her shoulders drop. Her voice isn’t edged with tension.
I refill her wine glass and ask, “Rough day?”
She sighs. “You know how kindergartners are like tiny humans hopped up on sugar and unfiltered emotion? Multiply that by thirty and add a plumbing emergency.”
“Oof.”
“Exactly.”
“You’re a saint,” I say. “Or a gladiator. Or both.”
She gives a dramatic bow. “Miss Hart, kindergarten warrior.”
I raise my glass. “To Miss Hart—who kicks ass, educates tiny humans, and still looks like a dream in candlelight.”
She blushes, but doesn’t look away. “Thank you. For this. For all of it.”
I rise slowly, walk around the table, and hold out my hand.
She blinks up at me. “Ash?”
I don’t answer right away. I just bend, tilt her chin, and kiss her.
Her lips part under mine and she sighs into the kiss—and that sound? It undoes me.
I pull back just enough to rest my forehead against hers.
“Let me take care of you tonight,” I whisper.
She swallows hard and nods.
I lift her into my arms. She lets out a quiet laugh, startled, looping her arms around my neck. “Ash, I can walk.”
“Shh,” I grin. “Kitchen god, remember? I carry my conquests.”
Her laugh is warm against my neck as I carry her down the hallway, but by the time I nudge open the bedroom door with my foot, she’s gone quiet.
She slides down my body when I set her on her feet, her hands lingering on my shoulders like she doesn’t want to let go. I don’t want to either. Not tonight.
I step back slightly, reach into the drawer by the bed, and pull out the soft, dark silk scarf I tucked away earlier—just in case.
Her brows lift as I hold it up.
“Hart, do you trust me?” I ask, my hands cradling her face.
She looks at me for a long moment. Then nods once, slow and sure. “Yes.”
I brush her hair back with both hands, then lean in and kiss her forehead, her temple, the corner of her mouth. When I move behind her to wrap the scarf around her eyes, she’s still. Steady.
