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Chapter Thirty-Two

Lilianna

We had spent an hour in the bookstore before we were done shopping, and now my arms were full of treasures—three novels that had caught my eye, a volume of poetry with illustrations that reminded me of Miles's garden, and a beginner's guide to violin that Julian had selected.

Christopher had insisted on adding a cookbook filled with comfort food recipes we could try together, and even Nicolaus had contributed a beautiful leather-bound journal to replace the one that was rapidly filling with my daily observations.

"Are you hungry?" Julian asked as we left the bookstore, his hand warm against the small of my back.

I nodded, realizing I was famished after the morning's activities. "Starving, actually."

"I know just the place," Christopher said, his gray eyes lighting up with enthusiasm. "There's a little café around the corner that makes the most incredible brunch. Private tables, quiet atmosphere—perfect for your first real outing."

The café was exactly as Christopher had described—an intimate space with wooden tables set far enough apart for privacy, soft music playing in the background, and the tantalizing aroma of fresh bread and coffee filling the air.

The hostess led us to a corner table partially screened by potted plants, creating a cozy alcove that felt secure without being isolated.

"This is perfect," I murmured as Julian pulled out my chair.

The men arranged themselves around me—Julian and Miles on either side, Christopher and Nicolaus across the table.

Their protective formation had become so natural I hardly noticed it anymore, though I appreciated the sense of safety it provided in this new environment.

"Their eggs Benedict is extraordinary," Christopher said, passing me a menu with obvious excitement. "And the French toast is life-changing."

I opened the menu, immediately overwhelmed by the options.

My parents had always ordered for me at restaurants, wanting me to only eat light food that wouldn’t cause me to gain weight.

I stared at the menu, my fingers lightly tracing the edges of the thick cardstock.

Everything sounded delicious—fluffy omelets, crispy waffles dusted with powdered sugar, buttery croissants with jam—but the longer I looked, the more my throat tightened.

For most of my life, going out to eat had never really been about food.

It had been about appearances. My parents never asked what I wanted.

They’d order the salad with grilled chicken or some other “safe” option, then smile tightly at me across the table as if I should be grateful for the opportunity to be seen dining out at all.

Now here I was, sitting between men who were watching me not with judgment, but with gentle patience.

Julian leaned in slightly, his voice quiet so it barely reached past the plants that framed our table. “There’s no wrong choice, Lilianna. We’re here to enjoy, not perform.” His words loosened something in my chest.

Across from me, Christopher pointed at the menu and stage-whispered, “You’d make my whole day if you picked the French toast. Then I’d get to steal a bite.”

“I’m not sure that’s how sharing works,” Miles said dryly, but there was amusement in his tone.

Christopher grinned and wiggled his brows.

“It’s how I share.” I laughed softly, the tension easing from my shoulders.

I looked back down at the menu, this time paying attention to what actually made me curious.

The lemon ricotta pancakes caught my eye—light, sweet, something I never would’ve been allowed to order before.

“I think I’ll try these,” I said, tapping the picture of the pancakes.

Julian’s expression warmed instantly. “Excellent choice.”

“And a side of bacon,” I added, then glanced at Christopher. “But I’m not sharing.” His mock gasp of betrayal earned a chuckle from all of them.

“That’s my girl,” Nicolaus murmured, and though his tone was quiet, there was something about the pride in his gaze that made my heart stutter.

When the waiter came, I ordered for myself for the first time in years.

My voice didn’t even shake. The guys each placed their own orders.

As the waiter walked away, Miles passed me a small dish of sugar cubes for my tea.

“You did well,” he said under his breath, like it was a secret just for us.

“Thanks,” I replied, stirring slowly. “It’s strange. I didn’t realize how... scared I was to choose something as simple as food.”

Christopher reached across the table, snagging one of the sugar cubes and popping it in his mouth like candy. “You’re unlearning years of being told who to be. That’s not small, Lilianna. That’s brave.”

I didn’t know what to say to that, but the words settled in my chest like something warm and solid.

"That's not what my mother would call it," I said softly, focusing on the swirl of my spoon in my tea. "She'd say I was being difficult. Ungrateful."

"Your mother was wrong about a lot of things," Julian replied, his voice gentle but firm as he repeated the words he and the others have said to me on more than one occasion. "Especially about you."

I looked up to find all four men watching me with various expressions of quiet support.

It was still strange sometimes—having people listen when I spoke, care about what I thought, and encourage me to have opinions.

I'd spent so long trying to be invisible that being seen, felt both terrifying and exhilarating.

"I'm starting to believe that," I admitted, meeting Julian's gaze.

Our food arrived then, steam rising from plates arranged with care.

My pancakes were golden and fluffy, topped with a light dusting of powdered sugar and fresh berries.

Julian cut into his omelet, but his eyes flicked to me, watchful in that way he always was—protective without being overbearing.

I took a small bite of my pancake, and the lemon hit my tongue in a burst of brightness I wasn’t prepared for.

The ricotta made it rich, but not heavy.

“Oh wow,” I said around my next bite, “This is so good.”

Miles chuckled slowly beside me. “Should we be offended the food is beating us in affection today?”

“I’ll take second place to lemon and ricotta,” Nicolaus said, sipping his coffee like a man entirely unbothered. “They’re excellent rivals.”

“I’ll have you know I helped convince the chef to put that dish back on the menu last season,” Christopher added proudly. “I should get partial credit.”

I gave him a dry look, but I couldn’t stop the smile tugging at my mouth. “Then thank you, Christopher.”

He bowed his head as though I’d knighted him, dramatically noble, and I shook mine with a laugh, surprised by how easily they could pull joy from me. I didn’t have to pretend. I didn’t have to be on edge, weighing every word or bite.

It was... freeing.

The conversation flowed naturally as we ate, punctuated by comfortable silences and shared laughter.

Christopher regaled us with stories from his latest cooking experiments, while Miles described his plans for expanding the herb garden in the spring.

Nicolaus mentioned a particularly challenging case he'd consulted on, and Julian shared an amusing anecdote about a difficult client who'd finally agreed to a reasonable settlement.

I found myself contributing more than I ever had before, asking questions and offering opinions without the constant fear of saying the wrong thing.

At one point, Miles pulled out his phone to show me a ridiculous photo of Christopher trying—and failing—to climb a rock wall during a charity event last summer.

“I didn’t fall. I descended rapidly with style ,” Christopher argued. I nearly choked on my tea, laughing at the photo of Christopher dangling sideways on the wall, his expression a perfect mix of shock and indignation.

"You were upside down," Nicolaus pointed out dryly. "I fail to see the style in that position."

"The photographer simply caught me at an inopportune moment," Christopher insisted, reaching across to steal a berry from my plate despite my playful slap at his hand. "Two seconds later, I was the picture of athletic grace."

"Two seconds later, you were on the ground," Julian countered, his eyes crinkling with amusement. "I have the subsequent photos to prove it."

Their easy banter wrapped around me like a warm blanket, inviting me into their shared history without making me feel like an outsider.

Miles's arm had settled comfortably on the back of my chair, not quite touching me but close enough that I could feel his warmth.

Julian had somehow migrated his chair closer to mine during the meal, close enough that our knees occasionally brushed under the table, sending little sparks of awareness through me each time.

"What about you, Lilianna?" Christopher asked, his gray eyes sparkling with mischief. "Any embarrassing stories you'd like to share about your newfound freedom? First attempts at rebellion?"

I considered the question, twirling my fork through the last bite of pancake. "Does eating ice cream directly from the container at midnight count as rebellion?"

"Absolutely," Miles said solemnly, though his green eyes danced with humor. "Especially if it was the strawberry shortcake flavor Christopher brought home."

"It was just plain vanilla. It had been the leftovers from a dinner party my parents had the night before so It hadn’t been thrown out yet. And I didn't even use a bowl," I admitted with a small grin. "Just the spoon."

Christopher gasped dramatically, pressing a hand to his chest. "The scandal! I've never been more proud."

Julian's eyes crinkled at the corners, and I felt his knee brush mine again under the table, this time lingering. "Midnight ice cream raids are a time-honored tradition of independence," he said, his voice warm with approval.