“I’m thankful that you slipped through the hands of everyone who had no idea how to hold you,” I told her, turning our hands so I could bring hers to my lips. “Because now I get that honor. And, Saff, there’s not a damn thing about you that is hard to love, let alone like.”

“Nothing?” she asked, turning to shoot a smirk up at me. “Not even my hatred of paprika?”

“Well, if we’re going to nitpick,” I said, getting a little laugh out of her.

I leaned down, pressing my lips softly to hers.

“I can learn to live without paprika if I get to have you,” I told her.

“I also despise nutmeg,” she said, making me pull back a bit.

“That might be a dealbreaker,” I said.

Her laugh was muffled by my lips.

“I’m willing to substitute nutmeg for more cinnamon,” she said, nipping my lower lip.

“I might be able to work with that.”

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Saff

For just a night, I pretended nothing else existed but welcoming Soren into my life without all of the lies and half-truths.

I didn’t even know where my phone was once we sat down on my reading chair, let alone who was calling and texting.

It didn’t matter.

What mattered was that we’d somehow, despite it all, managed to still hold out hope for our future.

I wasn’t entirely convinced that, once the dust settled and he wasn’t distracted by sex, he wouldn’t completely change his mind.

It was a lot to take in.

I mean all I had to learn to wrap my head around was Soren’s relationship with Alen.

He had to contend with my real identity, the destruction of my fake one, how I’d been secretly plotting to use our business to wash dirty money… the list went on and on.

I knew he was a rational guy, but asking him to somehow compartmentalize all that was probably too much.

Those were the thoughts I’d fallen asleep to while letting myself be wrapped up in Soren’s arms in my bed.

And waking up alone was the gut-wrenching belief that all those terrible thoughts of mine were true. That he’d woken up before me, had a little think, then ran for his life.

Likely right to the damn police station to turn me in.

It wasn’t until I sat up to find my strawberry coffee mug sitting on the nightstand, still warm, that the choking anxiety loosened its hold on my throat.

As I reached for it and took a sip, I also became aware of something else out of place.

The sounds of clanking in the kitchen.

What the hell could even be clanking?

I didn’t own a single pot or pan.