I picked out a black peplum tank top with a sweetheart neckline and paired it with sleek, high-waisted trousers that hugged my legs like a second skin. I knew we were staying in, but Jackson had made the effort to look good for me—and that meant something. The least I could do was return the favour. I slipped on a pair of black heels and let my hair fall freely, taming it with a brush and added a touch of gloss to my lips.
As I stepped into the hallway, the low, velvety hum of Shuggie Otis’s Purple drifted through the air like perfume. The buttery lighting spilled out from the kitchen, drawing me in. I rounded the corner—and there he was.
Jackson stood at the counter, forearms taut and dusted with hazelnut fragments. He was chopping with surgical precision, brows drawn together in quiet
