Damien did not answer right away.

The kitchen was quiet except for the low hiss of oil warming in the pan. Morning light filtered through the window, soft and pale, touching the counter where Ivy stood. She wasn’t tense. She wasn’t accusing him of anything. Her arms were folded loosely, her weight resting on one hip, her eyes steady on him.

“Have we met before?” she repeated, slower this time.

Damien’s back was to her. He had frozen with one hand still inside the grocery bag. For a ...