Dinner was, by Windstone's exact phrasing, "a strategic operation in controlled nutrition."
The long dining room glowed under the soft amber lights, the scent of roasted herbs and lemon lingering faintly in the air. The table, as always, was far too large for two people, but Trevor had long ago moved his chair close enough that Windstone had stopped pretending to rearrange them back to their formal positions.
Lucas sat in his usual place, posture impeccable, the soft fabric of his sweater belying the fact that his stomach had decided to make any deviation from plain carbohydrates a personal insult. On his plate sat a cautious portion of food, a delicate chicken consommé, a few pieces of steamed vegetables, and a single slice of bread that Windstone had cut with military precision.
