I’d already seen it, of course, yet it still managed to steal the air from my lungs.
Ben brought the car around to the front entrance and parked. I reached for the door out of habit, but he had already fucking teleported outside and was opening it before my hand found the handle.
“You’re fast,” I said as I climbed out.
“In the ways that count,” he answered, chuckling.
The wind caught in my braid as soon as I stepped onto the drive, lifting the loose strands around my face. I smoothed them back and looked toward the front door.
I was a bit disappointed when I didn’t see Tobias standing there.
Which was ridiculous.
He was probably busy.
He lived here. He didn’t need to stand at the door like some kind of brooding lighthouse keeper every time I arrived.
Still, I’d expected him.
Ben must have noticed, because he gave me a knowing smile as he closed the car door behind me. “He’s inside.”
“I wasn’t looking for him.”
“I didn’t say you were.”
I gave him a look.
He only smiled wider and started toward the entrance.
The house swallowed us into quiet opulence as Ben led the way down a corridor I recognized, though instead of heading toward my office and the main aquarium wing, he turned toward the kitchen.
The scent of coffee reached my nose before we even stepped into the room.
But when we did—wow.
The kitchen was enormous, with sleek counters and clean lines, and the ocean visible through a wall of glass beyond the far side. And there, standing at the table with his sleeves rolled back and his attention fixed on arranging plates full of fruit and toast with the focus of someone handling delicate equipment, was Tobias.
He looked up when we entered.
“Good morning, Cove.”
I stopped in the doorway, my bag still hanging from one shoulder, and for some reason, all I could think was that I had left a granola bar sitting uselessly in the bottom of it.
“Good morning,” I said, quieter than I meant to.
Tobias’s gaze moved over me once, quick but thorough, the way it always did, as if he were checking to see if anything had changed.
Then he gestured toward the table.
“I made breakfast.”
I stared at him, then at the table, then back at him.
“You made breakfast,” I repeated.
“Yes.”
“With your hands?”
