Not that I’d ever be so silly as to think he’d allow that.
“You changed,” I observe, nodding at his casual attire.
“So did you.” His gaze flicks down to the sundress, then back up. “The peach flatters you.”
“Thanks. I picked it out myself.” I pause, then add sarcastically, “Oh, wait. No, I didn’t.”
There’s that ghost of a non-smile again. “You’re welcome.”
I cross my arms. “So what’s the plan here? You mentioned dinner, but I don’t see a staff, and unless there’s a Michelin-starred restaurant hiding behind those grapevines, I’m not sure how—”
I blink. “You… you what?”
“Cooked.” He says it like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “The meal is waiting on the veranda.”
I gawk at him. “You’re telling me,” I say slowly, “that you made dinner. With your own hands. In a kitchen.”
