Henrietta's heart fluttered as she trailed behind Mr. Becket, her gaze fixated on the broad expanse of his back. His silhouette, strong and alluring, seemed to beckon her closer. She imagined him as a delectable cheesecake, each step she took bringing her closer to savoring his essence.
She took in the sight of his military attire. The fabric clung to his form, emphasizing the breadth of his shoulders and the chiseled contours of his chest. He stood there, a living embodiment of nobility and strength—the very image Henrietta had conjured when she'd heard tales of this enigmatic soldier from her brother.
"Mr. Becket," she mused, her lips forming the name. It was an odd moniker, yet it suited him somehow. Perhaps it was the juxtaposition of the stern soldier with the whimsical name that intrigued her. Tyrion's warning echoed in her mind—grumpy, they'd said. But Henrietta couldn't help but find a certain allure in that gruffness.
