Susan's POV
The Florida evening wrapped around me in a golden haze, the kind of warmth that made you feel like the world was holding you close. Through the open balcony doors, the soft scent of the ocean drifted in, mixing with the faint aroma of rosemary and garlic from the kitchen. Somewhere outside, the waves broke in a gentle rhythm, like a lullaby.
Mark Peters moved between the stove and the counter with the kind of ease that only came from someone who loved what they were doing. He wasn’t just cooking; he was orchestrating a little piece of comfort. His sleeves were rolled up, his dark hair slightly mussed, and every so often, he’d glance over at me with that smile—warm, teasing, the kind that said, You’re home here.
“Feet up, Susan,” he called out, flicking a wooden spoon in my d
