The penthouse kitchen smelled like heaven—if heaven had been designed by someone with a garlic fetish and a desperate need to be loved.
Garlic. Butter. Something sizzling in a pan that made Phei's stomach growl loud enough to wake the dead.
He couldn't remember the last time someone had actually cooked for him—not reheated leftovers, not takeaway shoved across a counter like an afterthought, but proper cooking with actual effort and ingredients and something that felt suspiciously like love.
Well. Maybe not love. But something close enough; she'll try to deny it till her heart starts believing the lie.
Melissa moved through the kitchen like she belonged there, which was hilarious considering Phei had never seen her cook a single thing in ten years of living under the same roof. At the mansion, that's what staff were for.
That's what he was for, back when he was still the charity case who did whatever the Maxtons told him to do with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.
