I lift the phone and swipe, but all my attention is on Noah as he leaves the room. Flannel shirt, corduroys, socks—completely casual, completely comfortable in my space.
“Dorian,” I say, forcing my focus back to the call.
“Hi. Checking in.”
“You know you don’t need to, right?”
“Underestimating your opponent is the best way to let them win.”
I laugh softly. “There’s no opponent. Just a woman who panicked facing a prison sentence.”
His silence is its own response. “You’re genuinely concerned about this network she mentioned.”
“Caroline is. It’s conceivable. A group of powerful, connected individuals who believe they know what’s best? Those groups exist. And if they feel endangered…” He trails off. “At any rate, you know I’m right.”
I don’t want to argue. And honestly, if it means keeping Stella safe, I can live with the security detail. “What are you and Caroline up to this weekend?” The conversation shifts—farmer’s market, his father’s health, his upcoming London trip to visit a mutual friend, Stella’s school year. Normal topics. But I can’t shake the feeling he’s circling something bigger.
“These shadowy people you’re worried about are more likely to be my clients than my enemies.”
“Maybe,” he says. “But you know how easily powerful people hide their messes. If Caroline’s right, you’re not out of their orbit yet. At least not until the hearings.”
I stare at the dark screen after the call ends, Dorian’s words echoing. A secret group. A hidden enemy. I shake it off, set the phone down, and follow my nose to the kitchen.
Two placemats are set on the kitchen island, and two bowls of tomato soup are set out. Noah’s at the stove, spatula in hand, watching over two sandwiches sizzling on the grill. Reality smells like butter and basil, not conspiracy.
It’s so...domestic. Unexpectedly intimate.
“Just in time,” he says, grinning.
“Where’d you get all this?” I ask.
“It’s all from my grocery run yesterday. Soup’s reheated—but it’s freshly made by a brand called Mama Calloway. We’ll see if it’s good. And the grilled cheese…this is a Bennett family recipe.”
“Stella would love this.”
“I’ll remember that for next time.”
Next time. The assumption is casual, unstudied–and I like it. “I’m pretty sure cooking detail isn’t on your list of job responsibilities.”
“I don’t mind. I like cooking. Reminds me of being home.”
“You know, you don’t need to hang out here all weekend. I’m not planning on going anywhere. This is a safe neighborhood. There have been no threats made. I’m good.”
“Where am I going to go in this weather?”
On the back patio, rain pelts the concrete and my covered patio furniture. It’s early afternoon and yet the sky is as dark as a typical evening.
“That’s a fair point.”
“If you want me out of your hair?—”
“No,” I say quickly. “You’re more than welcome. It’s nice having you here.”
“What have you got planned for the rest of the afternoon?” He plates the grilled cheese with the smoothness of a short-order chef.
“Oh, I have a few work projects I need to tackle.”
“Working on the weekend?”