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I curled tighter around his pillow as the tears came again.

I had the entire penthouse to myself, and all I wanted was him.

I cried until exhaustion finally won, then fell asleep wearing Lachlan’s shirt and wishing he were there to hold me.

Chapter thirty-nine

Eleven days later, I stood barefoot in Lachlan’s kitchen with music playing through the penthouse and enough food cooking to feed considerably more than two people.

The beef had been in the oven for hours, slowly braising in Irish stout until the smell of beef, onions, and gravy filled the kitchen and made my stomach growl every time I lifted the lid. A bowl of potatoes waited for the last of the butter and cream before I folded in the cabbage for the colcannon. The carrots were nearly done roasting, and the brown bread I’d made earlier rested beneath a towel on the counter.

Dessert had taken most of the morning.

The bread-and-butter pudding had finally turned out exactly the way I wanted, with vanilla crème anglaise waiting in the refrigerator and caramel sauce cooling nearby. Scarlett had laughed when I told her I’d made a practice version the day before because I refused to serve Lachlan anything that merely qualified as edible.

I turned up the music and sang along as I added another generous piece of butter to the potatoes.

I wore black leggings and an oversized gray sweater that kept slipping off one shoulder, with my hair pulled high to keep the long curls out of the way while I cooked.

I had never been happier in a kitchen or more nervous.

I glanced at the clock again. It was still several minutes before he said he would be here.

You invited the man to dinner in his own home. You can hardly complain that he isn’t here yet.

The absurdity still made me smile.

Especially when I remembered how I’d invited him.

The night before, I had opened his refrigerator, stood beside it with the door wide behind me, and taken a picture of myself pointing inside.

Can you guess what’s for dinner tomorrow night?

His answer had come less than a minute later.

A sandwich?

No.

Pizza?

Also no.

A longer pause had followed.

At this point I’m going to start naming things in the refrigerator.

I had stared at the screen for an embarrassing amount of time before sending:

You are, if you’re interested.

The little dots appeared almost immediately.

Name the time. I’ll be there.

So I did, and a little thrill went through me. I’d read that message at least six times before going to sleep.

It turned out neither of us was very good at complete silence. The night after Lachlan left, I was lying in his bed with my new phone resting against my stomach, staring at his name for nearly twenty minutes before I finally gave in and texted him.