Gérard returned not long after, a tray balanced carefully in his hands. He set it down on the bed in front of her with a quiet sort of hesitation.
"I'm not exactly skilled at this," he admitted. "You'll have to tolerate it."
Charlotte stared at the bowl of steaming soup, then lifted her gaze to him, disbelief flickering in her expression.
So that was why he had made her handle all the cooking.
Suppressing the thought, she picked up the spoon and took a cautious sip. The warmth spread through her, and to her mild surprise it wasn't terrible.
Across the room, he leaned against the wall by the window, watching her with an intensity that almost made her self-conscious, as though he expected her to gag or push the bowl away in disgust.
"It's fine," she said at last.
His gaze shifted away immediately, as if that was all he needed to hear. Without another word, he crossed to the closet, grabbed a shirt, and disappeared into the adjoining bathroom.
