In one smooth motion, he stepped forward, cupped her cheeks in his palms, and kissed her deeply.

"You little troublemaker," he murmured against her Lips, voice warm and filled with affection.

Tilda let out a soft grunt and lightly punched his chest.

But her body leaned into his, her defenses melting like snow in the sun.

Lyndon didn't linger.

He pulled away before things could heat up too much, his voice husky as he said, "Let's continue this tonight."

Tilda's breath caught. Her gaze flickered, hiding the sparkle in her eyes.

She had something special planned for him tonight.

For now, she sat quietly nearby, watching as Lyndon moved through the kitchen.

He wore a simple apron, and with it, shed some of his usual sharp, intimidating edge.

The overhead lights bathed him in a soft glow, highlighting the sharp lines of his face and the quiet concentration in his eyes.

He started with the steak.

Tilda leaned forward slightly, watching him check recipes on his phone. A smile tugged at her lips.

Could he actually cook?

She briefly considered preparing a bandage, just in case he nicked himself or burned a finger.

But she might have underestimated him.

Lyndon wasn't clumsy.

Before long, the rich aroma of seared steak filled the kitchen-savory, mouthwatering, and unexpectedly perfect.

None of the disasters she'd imagined had happened.

Lyndon placed the steak on a plate in front of her. "Give it a try."

Tilda glanced at the appetizing dish, its savory aroma wafting up, then flicked her eyes to him. "You cooked it, so you taste it first."

The steak looked tempting, but what if it tasted terrible?

Lyndon let out a soft laugh. "Are you questioning my culinary prowess? No need to worry—this steak won't be a salty, bitter disaster."

Tilda fell silent, mildly exasperated. There he went again, making fun of her!