She stretched out in bed, feeling the void of the morning. The absence of her mother felt like a damp, suffocating blanket.
She needed something—anything—to help alleviate the pain.
Party clothes, she mused. Hardly appropriate for a house in mourning.
But that's exactly what she decided to wear.
As she descended the stairs, she felt the morning's crisp air against her bare skin. Samuel was in the kitchen, his back to her, stirring a pot. The aroma of coffee and bacon wafted through the air.
"Good morning," she greeted, her voice softer than usual.
He turned around—and was taken aback.
His dark eyes swept over her body in an instant, from the tips of her bare feet to her tousled hair. He swallowed hard, his fingers clutching the handle of the frying pan tightly.
"Are you... cold?" h
