I handled all the rest.
And I was damn good at it.
I stirred the melted dark chocolate in the pot on the stove, then moved to slice strawberries, stacking them neatly in a little glass container. Next to it, mini sandwiches on fresh brioche buns, each filled with different spreads and cured meats. I had a thermos warming up some mulled cider—non-alcoholic, of course, but comforting nonetheless—and a couple glass bottles of fresh lemonade.
I stirred the melted dark chocolate in the pot on the stove, trying not to overthink the fact that I’d arranged three different dessert options. Just in case. Because maybe Kat felt like something rich. Or maybe fruity. Or maybe crunchy with a hint of sea salt.
I didn’t know anymore.
I didn’t know what she needed from me. And that? That scared me mor
