Julian’s footsteps began to descend the stairs.

I picked up the spoon and held it tightly against my chest.

He stepped into the kitchen, now wearing a grey cashmere sweater.

He looked relaxed, but his eyes immediately swept the kitchen.

They stopped on the stack of magazines, then moved to my face.

“What are you making, Clara?” he asked, walking over to the stove.

“The beef roast,” I whispered.

He lifted the heavy lid of the cast-iron Dutch oven.

A cloud of savory steam rose into the air, filling the room with the scent of rosemary and garlic.

He inhaled deeply and smiled.

“It smells wonderful,” he said.

He turned to me, leaning back against the counter.

“I saw your new post went live,” he said.

My breath caught in my throat.

“Did it?” I tried to sound surprised.

“Yes,” he said, tapping his fingers against the wood. “The traffic is spiking.”

“That’s good,” I said.

“It is,” he agreed. “But we have a small problem.”

He reached into his pocket and pulled out his phone.

“I received an alert from our hosting provider,” he said.