Of the winter-induced kind, anyway.

He switched his grip from my hand to my spine, his touch sending my pulse into a chaotic dance. There was a part of me that half wished we could skip dinner and jump straight into the dessert potion of the evening, but the saner part of me was having none of that. Our destination was none other than Viridis, the latest dining sensation in Deva and one of only twenty-three restaurants in the UK to be given a Michelin green star for high levels of gastronomy and sustainability. I’d been wanting to come here for ages but, despite the astronomical prices, the wait list was at least eight months long.

“Who did you threaten to get a table here at such short notice?” I asked.

He laughed, opened the door, and ushered me in. “I’m good friends with the maître d’ and have inside information when it comes to cancellations. Luckily for us, a table did tonight. Otherwise, it would have been dinner at the nearby pub.”

I seriously doubted that, given the classy burgundy dinner jacket, crisp white shirt, and black pants he was wearing.

The room we entered wasn’t particularly large, but filled with Victorian splendor. The tables were well spaced, the lighting muted, and there was no evidence of a bar, though there was obviously one here given that at the nearest table, a waiter was uncorking a bottle of Moët.

A dapper-looking older man approached, took care of our coats, and then said, “This way, Lord Lùtair.”

“Thank you, Henrick.” Cynwrig pressed a hand against my spine again, guiding me after the older man.

Given said older man wasn’t wearing a badge, this was either Cynwrig’s friend or he did in fact come here often enough to be on a first-name basis with all the staff.

We were led through the stylish and beautiful room to a staircase near the back. I ran my fingers across the worn and obviously original volute at the base of the stairs and let them drift along the curved oak handrail as we moved up. Its song danced through me, and I couldn’t help smiling. This building had been a long and happy resting place for the wood in this staircase, and there were very few left in Deva of this age that could make such a boast. Most had inevitably suffered damage over time, even the stairs in the tavern—though at least they’d had the advantage of pixie owners who could and did repair anything done to them.

We continued past the first floor and up to the second. This was a more intimate space set under the roofline, with a large and rather ornate Victorian fireplace dominating one wall and five discreetly placed tables—two at either end of the room and one in the middle. Henrick led us to one under a window on the street side and, once he’d seated us, handed us a drink menu. “Shall I come back?”

Cynwrig glanced at me and raised an eyebrow. I placed my purse under the table, then skimmed the menu and said, “I’ll have the Macallan 18, please.”