Ten minutes later, Grayson marched back into the sunroom carrying a silver tray.
On the tray sat a plate of golden, fragrant brioche French toast, dusted with powdered sugar and cut into mathematically perfect triangles. Beside it sat a glass of crystal-clear orange juice and a small bowl of fresh maple syrup.
Mailah was sitting comfortably in the pink blanket fort, trying her absolute hardest not to laugh out loud.
Grayson knelt gracefully on one knee outside the fort. He set the tray down on the low table with ceremonial elegance. He adjusted his duck apron, sat on his heels, and picked up the silver fork.
"Your morning nourishment," Grayson announced stiffly, his dark eyes fixed on her face. "The brioche triangles possess exact forty-five-degree angles. The orange juice has been filtered through triple-ply silk to guarantee total pulp eradication."
Mailah peeked at the plate. "It looks very good, Grayson. Now... rule number three."
