Elodie’s POV
The last few bites of the decadent chocolate souffle has vanished from our plates, leaving behind only sweet crumbs and the lingering scent of cocoa. I leaned back against the plush wooden booth, cradling my wine glass between both hands. Across the small table, Leif is midway through an absurd story about a hockey game when he was a rookie in his early twenties, gesturing so animatedly that his fork nearly takes flight.
‘I am telling you, Elodie, the goat refused to move,’ Leif insisted, his eyes crinkling at the corners as he laughed. ‘We were stuck at the arena for three hours because this rogue farm animal decided my duffel bag was its personal throne.’
I threw my head back, letting out a laugh that feels utterly effortless. ‘And you didn't think to just, I don't know,
