The penthouse smells like cardamom, toasted garlic, and warm spices by the time nine o'clock rolls around.
The heavy, silent chill of the evening has settled outside. Inside, the deep, amber glow of the fireplace casts long, dancing shadows across the leather sofa where Locke and I sit side by side.
On the low wooden coffee table between us, paper containers from the local Indian place sit open: tikka masala, garlic naan, lamb rogan josh, and a tub of spiced basmati rice that’s already half-empty.
I take a piece of warm naan, tearing off a corner, and look over at Locke through the soft firelight.
He’s already shed his heavy leather cut, leaving him in a fitted black T-shirt that hugs his broad shoulders and muscular chest.
"You know," I say, dipping the bread into the rich red sauce
