Dinner is a tense thing, full of clipped words and overly polite requests for the butter and salt. By tacit agreement, we limit our conversation to Sadie’s cooking, which is fantastic. She even conjured up several of Darien’s favorites, although his gratitude consists of inclining his head in her direction—and little more.
Nigel grips his fork, and I worry he might snap it in two.
Coffee in the living room afterward isn’t much better. Steam from the Kona blend fills the air, but it’s like the aroma has lost its ability to entice or soothe. Darien clears his throat once, twice. He sets his cup on a side table, leans forward. For a moment, I think he’s planning to leave, and my heart leaps with an inappropriate amount of joy.
“I suppose we should address the elephant in the room,” he says
