Elise.
I stepped into the kitchen, my body still buzzing from the encounter with Darius. I told myself it was anger—pure, unfiltered rage—that made my skin burn where his hands had been. Not anything else. Certainly not the way his deep voice had rumbled in my ear, or the heat that radiated off him like he was made of molten steel. No. He was an asshole. A cocky, domineering, insufferable asshole who had no right to touch me like that.
The air in the kitchen was heavy with the smell of freshly baked pastries, sugar, and something citrusy. Harris was at the counter, meticulously arranging desserts on a silver platter. He didn’t notice me at first, humming softly as he worked. But when I cleared my throat, his head snapped up like he’d been caught doing something he shouldn’t.
“Oh! Miss C
