Liora
The garden was the kind of place you’d expect to see printed on the back of a postcard: a maze of stone paths, fountains whispering in the distance, rose bushes trimmed so precisely it almost felt wrong to breathe near them.
But Zane was right, it was far from Callum’s parents eyes, deep in the hedges.
We sat at a white iron table beneath a trellis of climbing ivy, a tray of lox bagels, fruit, and pastries laid out between us like some perfect little royal picnic.
It should have been peaceful.
It very much wasn’t.
Zane leaned back in his chair like he owned the place, his ankle resting on one knee, the book balanced on the table in front of him. “You know,” he said, gesturing with a piece of bagel, “if this date thing works out, I might just move our next one here. It suits yo
