Monday morning was different when you'd spent the weekend uncovering a conspiracy.
"Don't touch those," Christian said, sliding a plate of perfectly golden pancakes in front of me. "I remember the last pancake incident."
Despite everything—the financial records spread across my laptop in the next room, the knowledge that Harold was being funded by someone, the entire political minefield we were walking through—I laughed.
"That was one time."
"That was a fire hazard," Christian corrected, kissing the top of my head before turning back to the stove. "Coffee is your lane. Stick to it."
I poured myself a cup and settled onto one of the kitchen stools, watching him move around the kitchen like he did this every morning. Maybe he did. I was still learning all his routines.
"S
