Chapter 533

Evelyn's thoughts drifted for a moment as she stood in the kitchen.

The atmosphere between her and Preston held an unspoken tension that somehow felt comforting.

Wasn't this the kind of domestic warmth she had once imagined before her divorce?

Except now, it wasn't Nathan standing beside her—it was Preston. And strangely, the past didn't ache as sharply anymore.

A sudden sting on her wrist snapped her back to reality. Preston immediately took her hand, guiding it under the cool stream of the faucet.

Their closeness was undeniable, their bodies nearly touching. She tried to pull away, but Preston mistook it for pain and only held her more gently.

His fingers traced the reddened skin before he lifted her wrist to his lips, blowing softly over the burn.

Evelyn's breath hitched.

The man before her was unexpectedly tender, his concern genuine.

Her pulse fluttered.

She quickly lowered her gaze, withdrawing her hand with a faint smile. "It's fine. It doesn't hurt anymore."

She masked the unease in her chest.

The burn was minor—just a drop of oil that had left a faint mark on her fair skin.

Preston's frown deepened, guilt flashing in his eyes.

"I shouldn't have let you cook." His voice was rough with regret.

Before she could protest, he took her wrist again, leading her out of the kitchen with firm insistence.

Evelyn exhaled softly.

In the past, she had endured worse burns without complaint. Cooking had been her labor of love—every meal painstakingly prepared for Nathan.

He had never noticed.

"What happened to Pretty Lady?"

Little Oliver hurried over, glaring accusingly at his father, who still held Evelyn's hand.

She sat on the sofa. "It's nothing. Just a small burn. But the kitchen—"

The steak was going to char.

Preston pressed a hand to her shoulder. "Someone else will handle it. Don't move."

Evelyn bit her lip. She had been asked to cook, only to make a mess of it.

A maid appeared discreetly, finishing what Evelyn had started without a word.

Preston returned with a first-aid kit, intent on applying the ointment himself.

Oliver hovered anxiously, staring at the red mark.

Evelyn almost laughed. "I can do it myself."

"You don't trust me, Ms. Sinclair?"

She shook her head. "It really doesn't hurt anymore."

Just a faint tingle—nothing worth fussing over.

Preston ignored her protest, placing her hand on his knee. They sat close enough that she could feel his warmth.

He dipped his fingers into the salve—imported, judging by the packaging—and smoothed it over her skin. The cooling sensation soothed the burn instantly.

But when the ointment faded, Preston still hadn't let go.

His touch lingered, sending an unfamiliar shiver through her.

She stiffened, lowering her lashes to hide the flicker of emotion. If she stayed like this any longer, she might—

"Daddy, why won't you let go?"

Oliver's voice shattered the quiet.

The tension dissolved.

Evelyn almost laughed at the boy's bluntness.

"Pretty Lady, does it still hurt?" Oliver continued, oblivious. "Daddy knows how to take care of girls. If you're uncomfortable, just say so."

Silence.

The moment was gone.

Preston's grip tightened imperceptibly before he released her, shooting his son a look that promised retribution.

Perhaps it had been too long since he'd disciplined the boy.