I'd never cooked a full meal for anyone in my life.
Not unless you count heating leftovers in college or scrambling eggs on a slow Sunday morning when Charles was too tired to bother. But today wasn't about utility. It wasn't about impressing someone with technique. It was about effort. A gesture. Something unspoken but important.
Celine had been distant since the board meeting, though not in the way she used to be. Not guarded. Just thoughtful. Maybe she was processing what we'd built in that room. Maybe she was waiting for me to make the next move.
And so, I did.
I left the office early. Ignored two meetings. Asked Oliver to drop me off at the penthouse and told the staff to take the evening off.
The kitchen looked untouched—as always. Stainless steel surfaces gleaming. Glass spice jars perfectly aligned. It was beautiful, clinical, and completely impersonal.
Until I started moving.
I rolled up my sleeves, searched the fridge for ingredients Evelyn insisted on stocking in case of "emergency domesticity," and picked something simple: grilled lemon herb chicken, roasted potatoes, and sautéed asparagus. Safe. Elegant. Something that wouldn't catch fire if I turned away.
Halfway through marinating the chicken, I caught myself smiling. Not because the food looked particularly amazing—but because I was imagining her face when she walked in.
Not surprised. That wasn't her way.
But maybe… disarmed.
At six-thirty, I heard the elevator chime. Her heels tapped softly against the marble as she stepped in. I kept my back turned, flipping the chicken on the pan.
"Something burning?" she asked lightly.
I smirked. "Only my ego."
She stepped closer. "You're… cooking?"
"Observant as always."
I turned and saw her eyebrows lift. She looked flawless, as usual. A pale blouse tucked into high-waisted navy trousers, hair pinned half-up, makeup barely touched.
"What's the occasion?" she asked, arms crossed.
"No occasion. Just… a peace offering."
Her head tilted slightly. "Peace for what?"
"For showing you I'm more than press conferences and clipped text messages."
She blinked. "That's oddly self-aware."
I shrugged. "You're oddly disarming."
Silence stretched between us—but not uncomfortable. Not anymore.
I gestured to the dining area. "Sit. I promise the kitchen won't explode."
She didn't argue. She slid into a seat, watching me with mild amusement as I plated the food and poured two glasses of wine. White, crisp, her favorite. I remembered.
I joined her at the table. She examined the plate like it was a test.
"You're not trying to poison me, are you?"
"Wouldn't dream of it."
She took a bite of the chicken. Her expression didn't change immediately, but then her eyebrows lifted.
"It's good."
"Shocking."
She smirked. "Mildly."
We ate mostly in silence at first, but it wasn't strained. Just… comfortable. Like two people learning how to be in the same room without armor.
Then she spoke, her tone casual. "So, Blake Aldridge can cook. Who would've guessed?"
I sipped my wine. "Don't let the tabloids know. I've spent years building a reputation for ruthless efficiency and emotional distance."
She laughed. "You've definitely nailed that second one."
I raised a brow. "And here I thought we were being nice to each other."
"We are. This is me being nice."
She ate a forkful of asparagus, then added, "Seriously though, why tonight?"
"I didn't want the boardroom to be the only place we function. I wanted to try something simple. Something normal."
"Normal?" she echoed, amusement flickering in her voice. "This is hardly normal for us."
"Then maybe we need to redefine normal."
Her eyes met mine across the candlelit table, something quiet and curious in her gaze. "You really mean that?"
"I do."
She leaned back in her chair. "Alright. What else can you do, Blake Aldridge, that would surprise me?"
I thought for a moment. "I can ride horses. Bareback. Evelyn insisted I learn at a summer estate in Wiltshire when I was twelve. Said it would teach me patience."
Celine nearly choked on her wine. "You? Patience?"
"It didn't stick," I admitted, grinning.
"I can play the cello," she offered suddenly. "Not well, but enough to annoy the neighbors during college."
"That explains your strong posture."
She blinked. "You noticed?"
I nodded, setting my glass down. "I notice more than you think."
The air shifted slightly—warmer now. Familiar.
We continued talking—nothing groundbreaking, just simple, human things. Favorite childhood meals. Worst travel disasters. The first business deal we regretted. She told me about a summer in Madrid when she got sunburned and ended up at a formal gala in a backless dress, wincing through every conversation. I told her about a failed whiskey venture I'd quietly buried.
By the time we finished dessert—store-bought tiramisu, no shame—something like laughter hung in the air like perfume.
"You're not so bad," she said, rising from the table.
"I'll take that as a glowing review."
She paused by the kitchen doorway. "Thanks, Blake. For the food. For tonight."
"Anytime."
She hesitated. "Let's do this again. Maybe next time… I'll cook."
I raised an eyebrow. "Should I alert the fire department?"
She grinned. "Try it and I'll poison your coffee."
And just like that, she was gone, disappearing down the hallway with the faintest bounce in her step.
I stood in the middle of the room, the scent of lemon and wine still hanging in the air, and let myself feel it—something new. Something honest.
For once, I didn't dread what tomorrow would bring.