The warm smell of vanilla and strawberries drifted through the suite before I even opened my eyes. For a moment, I forgot about Alma, the injunction, the boardroom in Scarborough — all of it. I just lay there, wrapped in Amir’s arms, listening to the soft clatter of dishes from the kitchenette.
“Someone’s awake,” Amir murmured into my hair.
“Someone is making a mess,” I corrected.
He chuckled. “I’m not supposed to tell you, but Malik has been practising for this since the Christmas breakfast debacle.”
Last Christmas flashed through my mind — Malik’s raw waffles, the turkey bacon burned into charcoal, his brave attempt at pretending he didn’t notice us pretending. The tears. The recovery. The way he’d sworn he’d “do better next time.” My little man was clearly seeking redemption.
“Aww…
