An hour later, the warm and savory aroma of chicken soup that Alex had finished making filled the air and curled around the kitchen like a cozy blanket.
I sat at the small dining table in one of Alex’s clean white shirts that were oversized, soft and smelling faintly of cedar and citrus perfume. He’d ordered clothes from a nearby supermarket, and in true billionaire fashion, they’d arrived faster than some pizzas. We’d taken turns freshening up and now here we were—clean, sitting across from each other and talking like old friends.
I took a spoonful of soup and closed my eyes while I let the warmth coat my throat. I chuckled, opened my eyes to look at Alex who was watching me and then said, “Okay, I hate to say thisnbut you might actually be better than me.”
Alex raised an eyebrow an
