Claude finally placed the spatula down with a dramatic sigh — the kind of exhausted exhale only a man who had survived three simultaneous battles could make.
One: the battle against a hot wok.
Two: the battle against Mio's relentless teasing.
Three: the battle against himself — and all the impulses she ignited in him.
But he won.
Barely.
The jumbo seafood fried rice sat on the counter, golden, glistening, steaming, fragrant — proof that Claude Lockheart could perform miracles under pressure.
Mio, who had been hugging him like a koala for the last ten minutes, lifted her head slightly.
"Done?"
Claude leaned forward on the counter, both hands planted there, taking a moment to breathe.
"Mio," he said in a low, defeated voice, "I almost died."
She blinked. "From what?"
He turned his head, staring at her with the expression of a man who had seen the edge of the abyss.
"You. Obviously you."
Mio raised one innocent brow. "I just hugged you."
