Sebastian, ever discreet, gently touched Joanne's hand. His grip was warm, steady, like an anchor.
He knew what she was thinking. He knew the ache in her heart. But he also knew something she didn't.
"I do not like this soup, Chrissy… I can't," Philip's voice whined from within.
Joanne exhaled shakily, confused. She blinked at Sebastian, searching his face.
He leaned in and murmured, lips twitching with humor, "Seasonal cold. Nothing to worry about."
A rush of breath left her. Relief. Frustration. Amusement. She didn't know which came first.
This man—this old man who held a piece of her heart in gratitude, was simply throwing a tantrum over soup.
Her lips quirked despite herself. Then, as the warmth returned to her limbs, an idea bloomed in her mind.
"Would it be imposing if I ask for the way to the kitchen?" she asked, her voice low and eager.
