The scent of garlic, chili, and sweet basil filled the dining room.
Helen was in her element, transferring the takeout Thai food into porcelain bowls because, as she frequently reminded them, "eating out of cardboard is for college dorms, not the Blackwood estate."
Damon sat at the head of the long mahogany table, nursing a glass of ice water. He felt like a coiled spring. His mind was stuck on a maddening loop: Leo kneeling on the Persian rug, the soft hair at the nape of his neck, and then the cocky smirk the boy had shot him in the living room.
'I didn't get up once.'
Damon gripped his water glass, the condensation cooling his burning palm.
Leo walked into the dining room carrying a stack of cloth napkins and silverware. He had changed out of his sweatshirt into a fitted black v-neck that highlighted the sharp lines of his collarbones. He looked very relaxed, humming softly as he set the table.
