“This looks like one of those houses from a Jane Austen movie,” I say, a breathless little giggle escaping me. “Should I go stand by a pond and wait for a broody suitor to emerge in a damp white shirt?”
“No,” Theo says, his voice a fraction gruffer than he probably intended. He catches my eye, his expressionsoftening just enough to be dangerous. “Only me. And I’m staying dry.”
Is it bad that a small part of me is actually disappointed? Because Theo in a wet, semi-transparent white shirt? Yes, please. I’d happily volunteer to hold his coat while he does a lap in the lake. I’d even find him a towel. Eventually.
Unsurprisingly, the inside is even more beautiful than the outside. Polished hardwood floors glow softly in the low light. A sweeping staircase curves upward beneath a chandelier whose crystal facets send tiny rainbows dancing across the ceiling. Portraits of stern men in military coats and elegant women in sweeping gowns line the walls.
We pass under a pair of arched double doors. A long wooden dining table sits in the center of the room, draped in a red-and-white checkered cloth. A silver candelabra glows with soft, dancing flames. A small vase of blush-pink roses sits between two place settings. The air smells like slow-simmered tomatoes, garlic, and fresh basil.
“If I didn’t know any better,” I say, a smile tugging at my lips, “I’d swear this came straight out of Mamma Lina’s kitchen.”
Theo beams, pleased with himself. “That was the goal.” He pulls out my chair, waiting for me to settle before taking his seat across from me. “It’s not Lina’s recipe, but it’s the closest I’ve found on this side of the pond so far. I just wanted us to have something that felt like us, if that makes any sense.”
“This is perfect.” The helicopter ride was a grand gesture, something out of a movie, but this—the fact that he could’ve easily booked the fanciest Michelin-starred terrace in London and instead chose a meal packed with this much meaning—is more than I ever could’ve wished for. This man is quickly capturing my heart.
“When did you have time to put all this together?” I ask.
“Between meetings. It’s notthatimpressive. All it took was a call to my cousin to ask about the house. And a couple mouse clicks to order food from the restaurant that’s catering and book the helicopter company.”
That’s Theo. Mr. Nonchalant. It’s the same way he handles projects. He does the heavy lifting, saves the day, and then acts like he just happened to be standing there when the problem solved itself. He doesn’t downplay his efforts to be humble. He’s just so used to operating behind the scenes that he honestly doesn’t think he’s doing anything special. He doesn’t even realize that most people can’t “mouse click” their way into a private Georgian manor by sundown.
“You didn’t have to do all this. I would’ve been happy with a pub dinner as long as it meant spending time with you.” I reach across the table and take his hand, my thumb brushing his knuckles.
“That’s exactlywhyI did this.” His eyes lift to meet mine. He shifts his hand, threading our fingers together, his thumb sweeping once across the back of my hand. “You matter to me, Kaori.”
“Theo,” I whisper, my heart doing a slow, dizzying roll. “You matter to me too. And it’s not just as a friend.”
He squeezes my hand, his gaze searching mine. “I’m an engineer. I’m better with physics and formulas than I am at reading people. I didn’t want to assume you felt the same way,” he admits quietly. “This is all uncharted waters for me. I didn’t want to risk being wrong and ruining what we have. I promised myself I’d play it cool tonight, but I hoped?—”
“Theo, stop talking. Just kiss me already.”
It takes him approximately two seconds to catapult out of his chair. He’s around to my side of the table before I can even finish the sentence. But in our mutual rush to bridge the gap, the physics he’s so proud of fails us completely. I stand up just as he leans down, and instead of a cinematic embrace, our foreheads collide with a dull, clumsythwack.
We both recoil instantly, clutching our heads with identical winces.
“Smooth,” I hiss through my teeth, though laughter is already bubbling up in my throat. “If that was a tactical maneuver to daze me into submission, it worked.”
“I should’ve just let you take the lead. Lesson learned.” He rubs his own brow with a sheepish grin. “Let’s try a reboot. And from a position of structural stability this time. How do you want me to kiss you? Standing or sitting?”
I rise to my feet. “Standing. Definitely standing.”
“As the lady wishes.”
Theo steps in, the humor in his eyes shifting into something much deeper. He cups my cheeks with both hands. His touch is so gentle, it’s as if I’m something fragile, which is hilarious, considering that I just nearly gave him a concussion. His thumbs brush lightly beneath my cheekbones, and that small, steady contact makes my knees feel like they’ve turned to water.
He pauses for a heartbeat. He’s waiting. Giving me every chance to change my mind or take the lead.
I don’t hesitate. I close the remaining distance, rising on my toes just enough for our lips to meet. His mouth is warm and steady against mine, not demanding, but asking a question I’ve wanted to answer for months. My hands find his chest. The fabric of his shirt is soft and a little wrinkled beneathmy palms, but underneath it, he is all heat and solid strength.
I breathe him in—the faint, clean scent of cedar and vanilla—and the world outside this old manor house simply falls away. As the kiss deepens, his fingers slide from my cheeks to the back of my neck, threading into my hair and setting off a full-scale fireworks display behind my eyelids. I curl closer, gripping his shirt, as we move together with a sudden, strange grace—like we’ve done this a hundred times already and our bodies finally got the memo.
When he finally pulls back, he doesn’t go far. His forehead rests against mine, both of us exhaling a shaky breath at the same time.
“I always enjoy starting with dessert first,” he murmurs.
I snort, the sound ruinously unromantic, but he just grins wider. “That wasnotdessert,” I whisper as my pulse tap dances in my veins. “That was asampler. A palate cleanser at best.”
His eyebrow arches. “Oh? Am I being sent back to the kitchen, then? Should I work on the flavor profile?”
