“Thanks for having me,” I replied, returning his smile, feeling an unexpected warmth spread through me.
I took a moment to study him. Avery was dressed casually, wearing an apron over a gym singlet that clung to his well-toned body. His biceps flexed subtly as he moved, and I found myself swallowing hard. Was I really checking him out already? It seemed almost impossible to resist.
“Was it difficult to find the place?” he asked, his voice smooth and welcoming.
“Not at all,” I assured him.
“Please, come in,” he said, stepping aside to let me enter.
There was something about him, a quiet confidence mixed with a genuine warmth, that immediately put me at ease. I followed him into the house, feeling a sense of calm wash over me.
His living room was a sight to behold—tastefully furnished with a blend of modern elegance and antique charm. The room was spacious, yet cozy, with soft lighting that created a welcoming ambiance.
Everywhere I looked, there were pieces that spoke of history—a grandfather clock, an intricately carved wooden chest, a collection of vintage books neatly arranged on a shelf.
The space was clearly a reflection of Avery’s personality—refined, yet with an appreciation for the timeless.
“Your home is lovely,” I commented, my eyes roaming over the details.
“Thank you, Licia. Make yourself at home,” he replied, his voice as warm as the room itself. “I just need to check on the meal. I’ll be out in a jiffy.”
As he disappeared into the kitchen, I took a seat on the plush sofa, my thoughts wandering. I couldn’t help but feel curious about Avery. There was an air of mystery about him, something that made me want to know more.
What had drawn him to this secluded area? What stories lay behind the antiques that filled his home? My mind was buzzing with questions, but one thing was certain—there was more to Avery than met the eye.
After a few minutes, the enticing aroma of his cooking became too much to resist. I decided to join him in the kitchen, not just to see what he was preparing,but also to satisfy my growing curiosity about him.
The kitchen was just as I expected—impeccably clean and orderly, a perfect reflection of the man himself.
“Hey,” I called out as I entered, my eyes sweeping over the spotless countertops and neatly arranged utensils. There was no sign of any domestic staff, which made me wonder if Avery maintained this level of cleanliness on his own.
“Hey, Licia. Need anything?” he asked, glancing up from the stove where he was stirring a pot with focused attention.
“No, actually, I came to see if you needed help,” I replied, moving closer, drawn by the mouthwatering smell of his cooking.
“Nothing, dear. You’re my guest. I’ve got everything under control,” he said with a smile, but I could sense his pleasure at my offer.
“I insist,” I said, my curiosity piqued not just by the food, but by the man preparing it.
He chuckled softly. “Alright then, if you’re sure. Could you check on the meatballs in the oven? The mitts are over there.”
I nodded, retrieving the oven mitts from the countertop and carefully pulling open the oven door. The heat rushed out, carrying with it the rich scent of perfectly cooked meatballs. As I worked, I tried to keep my focus on the task at hand, but my eyes kept drifting back to Avery.
The way his muscles moved beneath his shirt, the way he handled the cooking with such ease—it was all unexpectedly captivating.
“So, you cook?” I asked, breaking the silence, though it was more of a realization than a question.
He nodded, not taking his eyes off the pot he was stirring. “I picked up a few culinary skills from my grandmother. God bless her soul.”
“You two were close?” I asked, my tone gentle, sensing that this was a sensitive subject.
He paused for a moment, his expression softening. “We were. I grew up with her on a farm. She was my everything. But then she was diagnosed with cancer in my junior year and passed away a year later.”
His words hung in the air, heavy with the weight of loss. I felt a pang of sympathy for him, wishing I could ease the pain that still lingered behind his calm demeanor.
“I’m so sorry for your loss,” I said quietly, genuinely regretting that my question might have stirred painful memories.
He gave me a warm smile, though there was a hint of sadness in his eyes. “Thank you, Licia. But don’t worry about it. It doesn’t hurt as much anymore. It’s just… a part of life, I guess.”
