Page 49 of Trouble from Abroad
Let it sink.
Let it sting in the way only something kind and unfamiliar can.
When I find my voice again, I ask, “What are you making? It smells… divine.”
“It’s leftovers, but I made it myself. Beef bourguignon. Found some in the freezer.”
He lifts the lid, gives it another stir, and closes it again.
“The rice is fresh, though,” he adds, peeking into another pot.
“Well, by the smell of it, it’s going to be amazing.” I tug the napkin from under my cutlery, smoothing it over my lap, grounding myself to something.
He shoots me a smile, pride brightening it.
Preston plants his hands on the edge of the counter, shoulders going taut. He leans closer, tilting his head.
“Miss Thorne, you haven’t even tasted it yet,” he says, smooth as caramel. “You can’t decide whether something will be good for you before you give it a try.”
My pulse trips over itself. Heat skates down my spine and settles low in my belly, sudden and a bit humiliating. There is absolutely no reason a man offering me lunch should sound like he’s talking about ruining me on a kitchen counter, and yet here we are.
It doesn’t sound like he’s talking about food anymore. Or maybe that’s just my horny little imagination doing laps again. Either way, the way his voice dropped when he said it felt like foreplay in verbal disguise.
I gulp in air and nod, not trusting myself to say anything intelligible.
Preston plates up for me and we eat in silence proppedagainst the island. It feels more intimate than sitting at the table. Cozy enough that your knees brush if we’re not careful. His ankle bumps mine once. Oops. Then again. Oh. And now I hate how fast my heart decides that second touch means something.
* * *
The rest of the afternoon unfolds gently. Preston disappears upstairs with a new mission after speaking to the interior designer. Something about matching wood samples and measuring ceiling beams.
I give myself an hour of actual work: emails, two checklist revisions, and a call with April to confirm tomorrow’s viewing. Then it’s time to switch gears.
We pick Lily up, and she’s full of beans, running towards her dad with paint-stained fingers and a tote bag overflowing with glittered crafts. Preston, who is waiting for her in front of the car, crouches to her level and kisses every inch of her pretty face.
Back home, he sits with her on the floor, treating every scribbled picture she pulls from her bag like it belongs in the Louvre. I watch from the kitchen island, pretending not to melt into the marble.
She holds up a popsicle-stick crown bedazzled enough to rival the Queen of England’s tiara collection, then turns to me. “Can we have a picnic in the TV room?”
“Only if you let me go full Pinterest on it,” I tell Preston, already planning for throw pillows and fairy lights.
Preston groans behind her. “This is going to be a mistake.”
I turn to Lily, both arms in the air. “That’s a yes, Lils.”
She helps me spread a thick quilt across the room’s rug, and I pile three more blankets nearby. Her favorite plushies join us, along with nearly every cushion and pillow in the house. In the kitchen, I stack two trays with cheese, crackers, grapes, mini quiches I found in the freezer, and apple slices with peanut butter.
Lily chooses the movie—one of her comfort rewatches, apparently—and when the lights dim, the whole room glows gold.
We eat on the floor. Preston complains about how stiff his back will be tomorrow, but he doesn’t move. Instead, he pulls a blanket over Lily, then grabs another and drapes it around my shoulders.
Eventually, Lily curls up in his lap, breath evening out into soft little snores. Leave it to her to make snoring cute.
“I’m taking her to bed,” he murmurs, standing in one smooth motion with her tucked in his arms.
“You mind if I finish it? I actually love this movie. I’ll clean up later.”
He doesn’t answer, just nods once and moves silently up the stairs.
