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Sure, the plates were a bit askew, the candles leaned like they'd had too much wine, and the whole setup screamed "enthusiastic amateur" rather than Michelin-star elegance.
But there it was...my roast chicken, golden and proud in the center, surrounded by those uneven veggies and the sauce that, somehow, had not turned into a crime against gastronomy.
I'd only cried twice during the process.
That felt like a win.
The dining room, usually so intimidatingly pristine with its high ceilings and art that probably cost more than my entire childhood home, looked almost… cozy. I'd raided every cabinet I could find for candles — mismatched heights, mismatched holders — and scattered them down the length of the table like I was going for "romantic chaos" as an aesthetic.
Trix had supervised the whole operation from the doorway, tail wagging with an enthusiasm that felt either encouraging or pitying.
Hard to tell with dogs sometimes.
