Two days passed without drama.
Don trained, read, and let Winter force-feed him briefs on politics and pop fluff until names finally stuck. He wasn't fluent in this world yet, but he no longer felt like a tourist with a map upside down.
By 9 a.m., he sat at the head of the dining table in a plain black vest and gray sweatpants, bare feet on cool tile.
Steam curled from mugs. Cutlery clicked.
The penthouse let in a clean stripe of morning through the tall windows, laying a line of light across the fruit bowl and the jar of juice.
Samantha sat opposite him—glasses on, hair pulled into a neat ponytail, soft makeup set just so. Turtleneck. Work skirt. The whole "don't mess with me in meetings" kit. She buttered a scone with ease, eyes on her plate like the food had a deadline.
