And perhaps more.

“I called you a Saint Bernard as if it was something bad, but they’re a breed known for their intelligence, loyalty, and keeping their wits about them in touchy situations. I should be so lucky to have anyone think me so useful.”

Naledi stared at him, those large eyes wide with indignation, but something else, too. Something startled but pleased. He imagined she’d look that way when the man she loved pulled her close against him with no warning.

Expectation. That’s what it was, and she wasn’t the only one feeling it. A path was forming between them, brick by brick, spanning the width of the hallway and the length of the time that had separated them. Something drew him to her, a force that made his body go taut and his breathing slow down. Her lips parted and the tug between them grew stronger.

She cut her gaze away from him, and when it met his again, there was a distance there, like the bridge connecting them had fallen away—or she had demolished it with a controlled explosion. There was no coldness; she was warm as ever when her mouth pulled into a smile. But that distance left him feeling miles away instead of across the hall.

“Was that supposed to be an apology?” she asked. “Because if it was, I’m assuming you’ve never spoken to a human woman in your life.”

Thabiso let out a brief laugh of relief. She hadn’t told him to fuck off. There was a chance he hadn’t blown this entirely. He stepped forward tentatively, leaning forward at the waist to reach for the box she clutched in her arms so that he didn’t crowd her in front of her door.

“That wasn’t my apology.” He plucked the box from her hands. “But this could be. Or the start of one at least.”

“What is it?” she asked suspiciously.

“Dinner,” he replied, and then scanned the receipt taped to the box. “Specifically, lemon sage chicken thighs with a cucumber quinoa side.”

She stood still for a long time. “I’m trying to calculate the probability of this encounter we’re having right now but I don’t even know where to begin,” she finally said, shaking her head. “This is a really weird coincidence, don’t you think?”

“I don’t believe in coincidence,” he said. He hated that something so true was wrapped in a lie, but loved the way her lips parted at the words.

“I was completely out of line yesterday,” he rushed on. “You should have let me burn to a crisp, but you didn’t. I’d like to thank you for that, and nothing more.”

Her gaze skittered away from him.

“If you can put up with me for the amount of time it takes to cook and eat this, of course,” he added.

The sound of her stomach growling echoed in the hallway’s strange acoustics.

She sighed, but released her grip on her key and pulled out her phone.

“I’m telling my friend I’m having dinner with some asshole named Jamal who is definitely an arsonist and may or may not be a serial killer. So if you try to make lemon sage Ledi instead, the police will be here before you have time to book it to LaGuardia.”

The shift from hope to fruition was a tangible thing that Thabiso felt in the pounding of his heart and the surge of joy that forced the corners of his lips into a smile. That she called him by another man’s name wasn’t ideal, but the fact that she was talking to him at all was some kind of miracle.

He bit back the diplomatic immunity joke on the tip of his tongue and turned back toward the small flat that suddenly seemed to contain a world of opportunity.

“I’m not a serial killer,” he said. “And I’m no chef either.”

When he turned back to look at her, her gaze lifted from his butt. She had been caught in the act. For a moment their gazes held, and there was that same flash of heat that had simmered beneath her rambling talk of kale when they’d first met.

“Don’t expect any help from me in the kitchen. I can’t cook,” she said suddenly. “And don’t expect anything else either. I’m extremely frugal and tired of eating ramen, which is the only reason I’m accepting this invitation.”

Thabiso was definitely not used to this type of talk from a woman. He very often had to ask them to stop helping him, and those who shared a meal with him were generally expecting more themselves. But he liked her laying out what she wanted from him. Food, and nothing more. It was a start.

“I’ll take care of this,” he said, mustering his confidence as they entered the apartment. There was a recipe that must be simple enough to follow and no candle wicks were going to be involved. Still, his gaze scanned the room and settled on the small fire extinguisher in the corner of the kitchen with relief. Confidence was good, but he was learning that knowing one’s limitations could be useful as well.

Chapter 8

Ledi glanced at her phone just as Portia’s reply came through:

Whooooa. You’re having dinner with a strange dude? checks horoscopes to see what planet is wilding out right now

Ledi rolled her eyes. It wasn’t that weird, was it?

This is totally weird, but I’m intrigued. Fill me in tomorrow (check in when you can though).

Okay, it was totally weird. But Jamal didn’t really feel like a strange dude; the sense of familiarity had hit her as soon as he’d walked into the kitchen at the Institute. And though she was used to dealing with assholes, she’d spent the day angry and uneasy over what happened because the way their night had ended had felt wrong. She certainly hadn’t felt the same about Dan.