Chapter 157

The soft strains of jazz floated through the living room, a gentle backdrop to the warm glow of the overhead lights. The dining table was neatly set, crystal glasses catching the light, a bottle of red wine resting beside a pair of half-filled glasses. The scent of roasted duck and citrus filled the air, rich and inviting.

Izzy watched Liam carefully, fork in hand, as he took a small bite of the Duck à l’Orange. His eyes narrowed slightly in concentration, chewing slowly. She leaned forward, eyes glinting with excitement.

“Well?” Izzy pressed, lips twitching. “Do you like it?”

Liam raised an eyebrow, setting his fork down. “This is Duck à l’Orange?” he asked, a hint of amusement in his eyes.

Izzy rolled her eyes. “Obviously,” she huffed. “I just followed the recipe. It’s a bit complicated, but definitely worth it.”

Liam took another bite, chewing thoughtfully. He finally nodded, leaning back in his chair. “This is really good,” he admitted, lips twitching faintly. “I didn’t know you could cook something like this.”

Izzy snorted softly, stabbing a piece of duck with her fork. “Is that an insult?” she shot back, eyes narrowing playfully.

Liam’s eyes glinted with amusement. “No,” he said mildly, swirling the wine in his glass. “I just thought you didn’t have time for cooking, considering how busy you always are. This dish isn’t something for the weak.”

Izzy exhaled sharply, inwardly rolling her eyes. Busy was an understatement. Meetings back to back, late nights at the office, dinners with clients—she’d barely had time to breathe, let alone cook. And she was doing all those things for that damn Calen! “Don’t remind me,” she muttered. Following instructions had never been a problem for her.

She took a sip of wine, savoring the warmth. “I can follow instructions,” she muttered, feigning nonchalance. “Besides, you make it sound like I’ve never touched a kitchen before.”

Liam’s lips twitched. “Well,” he drawled, “considering the disaster that was your beef bourguignon back when we were sixteen, I’d say that’s a fair assumption.”

Izzy’s fork paused mid-air. Her eyes narrowed dangerously. “That was a long time ago,” she bit out, a faint flush creeping up her cheeks. “I was just a kid.” Why was he suddenly talking about the past again?

“Your grandfather nearly disowned you,” he mused.

Izzy groaned, dropping her face into her hands. “Don’t remind me,” she muttered, the memory vivid. Her grandfather’s horrified expression, the kitchen filled with smoke—the soup that had become a thick, inedible sludge. She grimaced, peeking at Liam between her fingers. “I was experimenting,” she defended.

Liam’s eyes glinted. “Experimenting?” he repeated, clearly amused. “You nearly burnt down the estate kitchen.”

Izzy huffed, cheeks warm. “You’re one to talk,” she shot back. “Who mistook salt for sugar when baking a cake for my birthday?”

Liam snorted. “You still ate it,” he pointed out.

“I was being polite,” Izzy muttered, her lips twitching.

They shared a look—half exasperation, half amusement—the comfortable familiarity of old memories replacing the tension. The warmth of the wine settled over them.

Izzy shook her head, chuckling softly as she sliced into her duck. “We really were disasters back then, weren’t we?”

Liam hummed, raising his glass slightly. “You mean you,” he corrected. “I was just fine.”

Izzy scoffed. “Sure you were,” she muttered, rolling her eyes dramatically. “Says the guy who burnt water once.”

Liam’s lips twitched with faint amusement. “That was once,” he said dryly. “And it was your fault for distracting me.”

Izzy snorted. “Right. Blame me for your lack of kitchen skills.” She took another sip of wine, eyes glinting. “What did you say to my grandfather again? ‘Real men don’t need to cook’?”

Liam chuckled, shaking his head slightly. “That was a mistake,” he admitted, eyes glinting. “I think your grandfather was ready to have me thrown out.”

“He should have,” she quipped, flicking a crumb off the tablecloth.

Liam arched a brow, smirking faintly. “And yet, here I am,” he murmured, raising his glass in a mock toast. “Married to his granddaughter.”

Izzy clicked her tongue but didn’t hide the small smile that escaped. “Don’t remind me,” she muttered.

They fell into a comfortable silence, the jazz playing softly, the clink of silverware a counterpoint. The wine was smooth, the food rich and savory, and for a moment, it was easy to forget everything else—the company, the resignation, the mess with Weiss Inc.

Izzy propped her chin on one hand, watching Liam carefully. “So?” she pressed, arching a brow. “Am I forgiven for the beef bourguignon incident?”

Liam chuckled, taking another deliberate bite of the duck. He chewed slowly before finally nodding. “I suppose,” he drawled. “If you keep making this, I might just forget all about it.”

Izzy rolled her eyes. “Well, after my resignation, I thought of actually learning how to cook. I was considering baking school or culinary school. Either way, I’d be cooking a lot.”

“Why do you have to do all these things? Isn’t that tiring? How about you just stay at home and be a stay-at-home wife? We can hire someone to cook while you shop or we travel the world,” he said.

Izzy’s eyes widened. “My god! I never thought of that,” she said, the sarcasm evident. “That sounds…boring. Did you want me to die of boredom?”

“Then are you planning to work for Rossi Group?” he asked.

“I wasn’t thinking of that now,” she shrugged.

“It’s either that or you work for me,” he smirked, his eyes traveling down her face. “I could accept you as my secretary.”

Izzy chuckled, the warmth of the wine spreading through her veins. “Well… I could consider that.” The thought of being his secretary made her giddy. She smiled.

“Oh… we’re almost out of wine,” Liam remarked, eyeing the nearly empty bottle. He stood, smoothing his sleeve. “I’ll grab another from the bar.”

He had just taken a few steps when the doorbell rang, the sound cutting through the jazz. Izzy’s eyebrow arched in surprise. She dabbed her lips with a napkin.

“I’ll get it,” she said, rising from her seat.

Izzy moved swiftly through the hallway. The doorbell rang again—impatient, sharp. She opened the door, eyes narrowing slightly.

Her gaze landed on Calen, standing stiffly in the doorway, shoulders squared and eyes blazing. He was still in his suit, tie slightly askew, and his clenched jaw showed his displeasure.

Izzy blinked, surprise flickering briefly before turning guarded. “Mr. Weiss?” she asked, fingers tightening on the door handle. “What are you doing here?”

But at the same moment, Calen’s eyes narrowed, taking in her appearance, the soft light, and the jazz. His expression twisted, a mix of irritation and disbelief.

“What the hell are you doing here?” he snapped, eyes dark.

They both paused, realizing they’d spoken simultaneously. For a brief, awkward moment, neither moved.

Izzy arched an eyebrow, unimpressed. Then she smiled. “I live here,” she said dryly, fingers drumming against the door. “That’s usually how houses work.”