By mid-morning, the villa smelled like fresh basil and garlic and something sweet Celeste had found in a local market basket. She stood barefoot in the kitchen, a borrowed apron tied haphazardly over her cotton slip, stirring a pot that was threatening to bubble over.
Damien watched her from the doorway, wearing a short-sleeved T-shirt and casual pants, his phone abandoned on the counter, for once not buzzing with headlines or calls to return. Just them, the soft clang of pots, the morning sun cutting through the high windows like a warm hush.
“You’re going to burn it,” he teased, stepping in behind her.
“Am not,” Celeste shot back, flicking a tiny splash of sauce at his chest.
He caught her wrist before she could get away, the smear of tomato bright against his white top. “You’re dang
