Chapter 2

Thomas simply inclined his head, words deserting him as an odd tension hovered between them. He had no idea what to say, no clear response to offer Cassandra’s restless gaze.

“How about you?” Cassandra prompted, her tone light yet urgent, as if conjuring a distraction. “What’s your favorite food?” She shifted the conversation swiftly, determined to dispel the strange atmosphere that seemed to cling to the moving boxes and echoing hallways.

He paused, weighing his reply, relieved by the question’s mundanity. “I’m not picky,” Thomas said at last, a small smile easing the uncertainty from his features. “But if I had to choose, I lean toward sweets—desserts always hit the spot.”

Cassandra nodded, scribbling a mental note. Then, as though she feared missing something important, she leaned forward and asked again: “Is there anything you hate someone doing to you? I want to avoid hurting you.”

Thomas paused, surprised by her earnest concern. He closed his eyes for a moment, recalling the few irritations that nagged him. “Yes,” he admitted gently. “I really hate being woken up. I prefer to rouse on my own terms.”

“Noted,” Cassandra replied, tapping her chin thoughtfully. “Anything else I should know?”

He shook his head, then stood up, gathering the boxes that still needed hauling to the second floor. Cassandra followed suit, shouldering the lighter cartons with eager, if clumsy, enthusiasm. Heavy trunks and stacked binders fell to Thomas’s capable arms; she fumbled gladly with scarves and photo frames, relieved to play a part.

Once the last box stood in neat rows beneath the stairwell, Thomas straightened up, brushed invisible dust from his shirt, and turned to the walk-in closet. The space was surprisingly cavernous—built for a couple with plenty of wardrobe to spare. With swift efficiency, he arranged the existing shelves, folded sweaters, and slid hangers to one side, freeing up half the closet for Cassandra’s things.

“Here,” he said, sweeping an arm across the empty rail. “This is yours. You can put your clothes here.” His voice carried a warmth that made her heart flutter. “If you’d rather have your own closet, I can build something separate—but it’s fine if we share.”

Cassandra clasped her hands. “No, it’s perfect,” she said softly, stopping him before he could speak again. Relief flooded her chest. She shouldn’t ask for more—how lucky she was that Thomas treated her with kindness and respect. Marriage to him felt like a lifeline. In any other scenario, she feared, she might have married someone who saw her as an object, a body to be possessed. With Thomas—gentle, unhurried, considerate—she could breathe. She owed him her gratitude, her unwavering support.

“Need any help?” he offered, already stepping back toward the boxes by the door.

“I’ve got this,” Cassandra replied, her voice firm with newfound confidence. “I’ll take care of my own things.”

“Alright,” he said, flashing an affectionate grin. “After you unpack, come down to the kitchen. I’m making dinner.”

“Thank you,” she answered, smiling in return.

He turned on his heel, his broad shoulders filling the doorway as he exited, leaving her alone with the boxes and the neatly half-furnished closet. For a moment, she watched his retreating back, marveling at the steady, masculine lines of his frame. Then she frowned, as though scolding herself for such an observation.

“He’s too manly,” she murmured inwardly, fingers touching her chin. But how could that be the standard? She reminded herself of the truth she already knew: Thomas’s orientation set him apart from the men who chased women with anything but respect. She would support him—this was the least she could do for a husband who treated her like an equal.

Encouraged by her own resolve, Cassandra unsealed the first box and began gently lifting blouses from their tissue paper nests. A soft sense of liberation swelled in her chest. Back in her old home, she had been tamed by expectation, taught to mind every gesture and control every smile. Here, in this spacious closet half-shared with a considerate man, she could unfold herself. She could smile freely, breathe freely.

She paused in her sorting, fingers grazing the charm bracelet on her wrist—a delicate loop of silver hung with tiny trinkets, each a memory. Her lips curved in a serene half-smile. “I’m starting a new life, Clara,” she whispered, as though speaking to a protective spirit. “I know you’re watching over me. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

A deep breath later, she surveyed the pale walls and the subtle woodgrain floor, still tinged with Thomas’s subtle cologne like an underlying scent of cedar and sandalwood. It struck her that, if she didn’t know his secret, that faint scent alone might have made her fall in love.

“He smells so good,” she reflected, closing her eyes at the memory of their wedding day, “not overpowering—just… scrumptious.” She chuckled softly to herself. But then reality snapped back into focus: she wanted a man, a husband, and she had him. That was enough.

Packing away the last of her scarves, she shut the empty box lid and made her way downstairs. The house, though not a sprawling mansion, had enough nooks and corridors to feel labyrinthine. It took her a few moments wandering around a corner, then down a short hallway, before she found the kitchen doorway.

She stepped in just as Thomas was pulling a baking dish from the oven. Warm light glinted off the ceramic, and the rich aroma of butter, lemon, and garlic curled around her like an embrace. Thomas’s forearm flexed under his sleeve as he lifted the pan, and she marveled unconsciously at the play of muscle beneath smooth skin.

Darn, he’s ripped, she thought, cheeks warming. Immediately, she chastised herself, aware that he’d turned at the sound of her approach.

“Done with your things?” he asked, setting the dish on a wooden trivet that protected the island’s polished surface.

She nodded, drawing nearer to the countertop, inhaling deeply. “What is that?”

“Dinner,” Thomas replied, a hint of pride in his voice. “Baked tilapia, with butter, lemon juice, garlic powder, and salt folded in together, then a sprinkle of capers, oregano, and just a pinch of paprika.”

She closed her eyes, savoring the scent. “It smells incredible.”

He laughed softly. “It tastes even better.”

She lifted one brow playfully. “Someone’s bragging.”

He puffed out his chest in mock triumph. “I’m that good.”

Her laughter rang out, light and spontaneous, and she froze for an instant, half-expecting reprimand. But Thomas only frowned at her with mock severity.

“Why stop laughing?” he teased, voice warm. “Keep going. It’s free.”

She laughed again, the sound echoing off the cabinets. It felt wonderful to be unrestrained.

“Let me help you serve,” she offered, still chuckling.

“Nope.” He reached around her and placed both hands gently on her shoulders, guiding her toward the elegant dining table. “You, my dear, will sit here like a queen.” He slid out the chair and eased her into it with tender care. “I’ll handle everything else.”

“But—” she began, though her protest was more feeble than she intended.

“Please,” he said, smiling as he arranged two plates. “Just let me do this. My cousin Callie married a few years ago, and every time I visit them, I see him preparing dinner for his wife. I thought I’d learn from him—treat you the way he treats hers.”

Cassandra’s throat tightened at the thoughtfulness behind his words. She could only nod, overwhelmed by affection.

Thomas continued setting the table, placing glasses of water, a small bowl of fresh fruit for dessert, and neatly folding linen napkins beside each plate. As he worked, he jabbered on about family.

“Speaking of my cousin,” he began, carrying the fish dish to the center of the table, “when would you like to meet them? Well, meeting Callie means meeting my other friends, too. I warn you, they can be… loud.”

Cassandra looked up at him, eyes bright. “You make it sound like they’re terrible people.”

He chuckled, sliding into the chair beside her. “Not terrible—just noisy. Crazy, if I’m honest. But in a good way.”

She sat in quiet wonder as he placed a generous fillet on her plate, then plated his own. He fussed with the presentation, arranging a slice of lemon alongside the fish, dotting each plate with fresh parsley. His care warmed her more than any scent or flavor could.

Finally, they settled into their seats, side by side, two plates of golden fish steaming between them. Cassandra reached for her fork, glancing at Thomas with a gentle smile. In that moment, she felt gratitude deeper than the sweetness of any dessert, and as she tasted the first bite—luscious, tangy, perfect—she knew she was exactly where she belonged.