“And for drinks?” the waiter asked.
“Sparkling elderflower for the lady,” Kross replied smoothly. “Black currant and lime soda for me.”
Dessert came next. Kross ordered something called a Basil panna cotta with raspberry coulis—which, again, I had no clue what it was, but it sounded fancy enough to be impressive.
I sat there a little stunned, thankful for once that someone had stepped in before I embarrassed myself by asking if they had mashed potatoes.
The waiter turned to me with a warm smile. “Would you like to add anything else, miss?”
Kross tilted his head, watching me closely, his brow raised—not in a mocking way, but in that silent gesture that said I’ve got your back, but this is your call.
He didn’t speak for me, I realized. He noticed I was struggling, helped, and then left
