The table was set simply — just two plates, a bottle of red wine Alaric had opened earlier, and the faint hum of jazz in the background. Kimani twirled her fork absentmindedly, her gaze flickering between her plate and the man across from her. Alaric looked far too composed for someone who’d just spent an hour in the kitchen. His sleeves were rolled up, the top button of his shirt undone, a rare trace of relaxation softening the edges of his usual calm demeanor.
“Honestly,” Kimani began, a teasing smile tugging at her lips as she took a bite, “for someone who could literally hire a Michelin-star chef to cook every meal, you spend a suspicious amount of time in the kitchen.”
Alaric looked up, one brow arched. “Suspicious, hmm?”
She nodded, feigning seriousness. “Yes. Very suspicious. Mos
