Chapter 79

Serena's POV

The doorbell rang precisely at seven. I smoothed my hands over my dress one last time before opening the door. Lucas stood there, impeccable in a charcoal suit that I immediately recognized as bespoke Savile Row. His black hair was freshly styled, the subtle waves tamed into sophisticated order.

The cut of the suit emphasized his broad shoulders, tapering perfectly to his waist. His striking grey eyes seemed darker in the evening light, holding that familiar intensity that always made my pulse quicken. A hint of stubble, precisely maintained rather than coincidental, followed the sharp line of his jaw. He held a bouquet of white lilies and deep red roses, and the ghost of his signature cologne - subtle but unmistakable - reached me before he spoke.

"I came straight from the office," he said, his voice carrying that familiar hint of amusement that told me he knew I wouldn't believe him. The suit was too perfect, too fresh. He'd clearly gone home to change.

"Thank you," I said, accepting the flowers. Our fingers brushed briefly. "Come in."

I led him to the living room, aware of his presence behind me. "Make yourself comfortable. Dinner's almost ready." Almost ready was an optimistic assessment, but I wasn't about to admit that.

In the kitchen, reality hit hard. The ribeye steak sizzled threateningly in the cast iron pan, spattering hot olive oil in all directions. I tried to remember the cooking times I'd researched, but the meat looked nothing like the tutorial videos.

"Need any help?" Lucas appeared in the doorway, leaning against the frame with casual elegance.

"No, I'm fine-" A particularly aggressive pop of oil caught my bare arm. "Ah!" I jumped back, nearly dropping the tongs.

Lucas moved forward instinctively, but I held up a hand to stop him. "Really, I've got this. Please, just wait in the living room."

He hesitated, then nodded, though I could see him fighting back a smile. "Whatever you say."

Once he was gone, I surveyed the battlefield that was my kitchen. The scallops were somewhat salvageable, though not quite the golden-brown perfection I'd aimed for. The lobster bisque, thank god, had turned out decent. The steak... well, that was a work in progress.

Twenty minutes later, I emerged from a quick change into a midnight blue cocktail dress, having managed to plate everything in a way that almost resembled the reference photos I'd studied. Lucas stood as I entered, his eyes tracking my movement with appreciation.

The candlelight softened the dining room, reflecting off the crystal wine glasses I'd set out. Lucas pulled out my chair, the gesture so natural it barely registered as old-fashioned.

"Is this a belated birthday dinner?" he asked, settling into his own seat.

I nodded, focusing on smoothing my napkin. "Yes." I hesitated, then added quietly, "And an apology."

His expression warmed, genuine pleasure replacing his usual careful control. "I like both of those reasons."

I watched Lucas with bated breath as he cut into the steak I'd prepared. The soft clink of his knife against the bone china plate seemed deafening. Despite the intimate lighting and the perfect table setting, my heart wouldn't stop racing.

Lucas maintained his usual composed expression as he took the first bite. I'd spent hours researching recipes and practicing this dish, determined to impress him. The way he methodically chewed, his face betraying nothing, made my stomach twist into knots.

"How is it?" I asked, trying to keep my voice steady. My fingers fidgeted with the stem of my wine glass, waiting for his verdict.

"It's fine," he replied smoothly, taking another bite. "Not bad at all."

Something about his too-careful movements made me suspicious. I reached for my own fork, ready to taste the fruits of my labor, but Lucas's hand suddenly covered mine. His touch was warm and gentle, but firm.

"I wouldn't if I were you," he said softly. "One case of food poisoning at the table is enough."

My heart sank as I pulled my hand back. "What do you mean?"

Instead of answering, he cut another piece of the steak and put it in his mouth. I grabbed my fork again, determined to know the truth, and managed to snag a small bite before he could stop me.

The taste hit me like a punch to the gut. The meat was simultaneously burnt and raw, with an odd bitter undertone that definitely shouldn't have been there. I quickly reached for my water glass, trying to wash away the taste.

"Oh God," I groaned, mortified. "You've been eating this the whole time? Why didn't you say something?"

Lucas dabbed his mouth with his napkin, the picture of elegance even in this awkward moment. "You went to so much trouble. It would have been ungrateful to complain."

"I'm so sorry," I said, feeling my cheeks burn. "I really thought I'd improved since last time."

A small smile played at the corners of his mouth. "Don't worry about it. In any household, only one person needs to know how to cook."

My heart skipped a beat at his casual implication of a shared future. To hide my flustered reaction, I stood up. "Let me at least make you something edible. I know I can't mess up a sandwich."

"Serena." His voice stopped me before I could escape to the kitchen. When I looked back, his eyes were warm with affection. "Thank you for trying."

That simple acknowledgment of my effort, the genuine appreciation in his voice, made my embarrassment fade. I smiled back at him, feeling a flutter in my chest that had nothing to do with my culinary disaster.

"Just wait," I said, heading toward the kitchen. "I promise the sandwich will be better than the steak. Though that's not saying much."

When I returned with our impromptu late-night snack, I found him still sitting at the elegantly set table, looking completely at ease. Only Lucas Harrington could make eating a hastily made sandwich look like a sophisticated dining experience.

"Much better," he declared after taking a bite, and this time I could tell he meant it.

I relaxed into my chair, the tension finally leaving my shoulders. "I think I'll stick to business deals and leave the cooking to the professionals from now on."

"Or," he said, his eyes meeting mine over the rim of his wine glass, "you could leave it to me."