The suite's kitchen filled with the gentle sounds of a waking morning: the click of the toaster, the soft, whimpering hum of the coffee machine as fresh black coffee trickled into a cup, and Lennox Graves's merciless muttering as he attempted to impose some kind of order on a chaotic mess of orange juice, toast, and honey.
"This jam's firmer than a boxing glove," he growled, desperately trying to coax the strawberry preserves from the jar's mouth.
Sloane stood behind the table, a whisk in one hand and a bowl in the other, beating eggs with the intensity she usually reserved for emergency surgery. Her hair had been hastily pulled into a ponytail, though a few strands had already escaped, framing her face in a charming mess. There were faint shadows beneath her eyes—evidence of missed slee
