The living room was quiet that night, except for the faint hum of the air conditioner and the distant sound of raindrops against the windows. Dinner was long over, dishes washed, and Claude had retreated upstairs to his study—or so I thought. I was curled up on the couch with a blanket, scrolling through recipes for tomorrow's lunch, when his shadow fell over me.
"Still awake, Mrs. Lockheart?" His voice had that warm, teasing lilt that made my heartbeat pick up.
I looked up, ready to give a dry remark, but stopped. Claude wasn't in his usual neatly buttoned shirt. He wore a plain black one—soft-looking, casual—but it was slightly damp from a recent shower, clinging just enough to hint at the lines of his chest. His hair was still wet, messy, and somehow unfairly handsome. I hated how effortlessly he pulled that off.
"What?" I tried to keep my tone neutral, but the corner of his mouth curved.
