"I like anything," Michael said honestly, "so long as it doesn't taste like medicine."
Arianne's lips curved into a small smile.
"That is a reasonable standard," she said lightly. She reached for a slender spoon and stirred the pot once, watching the steam curl up in a delicate plume.
Then, almost as though the question had been inevitable, Michael tipped his head a fraction to the side.
"And you?" he asked, his voice pitched just enough to carry a thread of curiosity. "Do you like preparing tea yourself?"
His gaze flicked briefly to the polished service and the measured, practiced way she handled each piece.
Michael couldn't quite shake the sense that her making tea herself—rather than having the maid do it—felt like something significant. Some gesture he wasn't sure he deserved.
Arianne stilled, her fingers resting lightly atop the porcelain lid. Her lashes lowered for a moment as though she were considering how honest she wanted to be.
