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Ialmostburst into laughter.

“What’s funny,” he asks, frowning slightly.

“Bakingis a big term,” I say, still grinning. “She won’t knowwhatto bring.”

I turn to Teresa and ask for ingredients for a simple chocolate cake. She nods and disappears into the pantry. When she returns, she sets down flour, sugar, eggs, cocoa powder, and other essentials, moving with quiet efficiency.

Nicolas leans against the counter, arms folded, watching me as I measure out the ingredients.

His gaze isintense—not in a way that unsettles me, but as if he’sstudyingme, trying to understand something unspoken through the simple act of baking.

As I crack an egg into the bowl, he steps closer.

“Why baking?”

I shrug, mixing the batter. “It’s comforting.”

“Did you bake a lot growing up?”

I pause, the memory flickering to life—sneaking into the kitchen as a teenager, the warmth of the oven, the quiet joy of creating somethingjust for me.

“I did,” I admit. “But not as much as I wanted to. My family didn’t see it as important.”

He tilts his head slightly. “Whatdidthey see as important?”

“Diplomacy. Power. Politics.”

I let out a short laugh, though there’s little humor in it.

“I studied international diplomacy like a good little Rossi.”

He doesn’t say anything, but his silence urges me to continue.

“It wasn’t my choice,” I admit. “If I had my way, I’d do something else.”

He leans against the counter beside me, his hand brushing mine as I stir.

“Like what?”

I hesitate, but something about how he’s looking at me—like he’s peeling back layers I’ve hidden even from myself—makes me answer honestly.

“I’d run a charity.”

His brows knit together slightly. “What kind of charity?”

“One that helps displaced women and children,” I say, pouring the batter into a pan. “Refugees, people who’ve lost everything. I always wanted to help rebuild lives.”

Because it felt like my family destroyed lives.

The confession feels raw, exposed—like I’ve peeled back something too tender.

But Nicolas doesn’t make me regret it. He studies me for a long moment, his gaze unreadable. Then, he steps closer.

“You’ve got batter on your face,” he says.

But instead of reaching for a towel, he leans in—and licks it off.

His tongue is warm against my skin, sending a shiver down my spine.