Mailah took a slow, deliberate sip of her pulp-free orange juice, watching her husband over the rim of the glass.
He was still wearing his yellow duck apron over his sleek black sweater, standing by the marble counter with his arms folded tightly against his broad chest. His sharp jaw was set in that familiar, majestic pose—half regal prince, half dramatic golden retriever on high alert.
"Grayson," Mailah said softly, setting her glass down on the island.
"Yes, my love?" Grayson replied smoothly, his deep voice carrying an immediate, devoted warmth.
"I am stir-crazy," she declared, resting her chin in her hands. "I have been staring at the exact same four walls of this sunroom and kitchen for a week. I want to go outside."
Grayson stilled. His dark eyebrows pulled together in a sharp, defensive line.
