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What if I did something embarrassing?
Had I been responsive enough?
Was I too loud? Not loud enough?
Did he think I made weird faces when I finished?
Were my stretch marks off-putting?
What if I’d been so bad in bed he never wanted to see me again? Was that why he wasn’t here? Did I chase him out of his own house with how awful it was?
That’s ridiculous, Avery. If it was that bad, he’d have kicked you out. It’s his house. He’s not going to check into a motel and leave you to wander around his home alone.
That thought is enough to wash the worries out of my brain—for now, at least.
The man has a sweet tooth to rival my son’s. I honestly think he might die if he didn’t eat something sugary every day. More likely than not, he’s somewhere downstairs eating some kind of pastry.
It’s too early in the morning to try and wriggle back into my dress from last night, so I bend down to grab his shirt off the floor to cover myself.
That’s when I see the piece of paper on the floor next to the nightstand.
When I turn it over, I see Wesley’s classic scrawl across the page.
Avery,
Rotisseur for today’s event called in sick with stomach bug. No one to prepare meat. Have to go. Sorry.
Please have breakfast. My kitchen = your kitchen.
If you shower, cold knob is tight. Have to turn it hard.
If I’m not back when you leave, business card for car service is on kitchen counter. Call and give my name. I’m paying. Don’t argue.
– Wesley
Not that I’d been too worried, but it is nice to know he’s still a nice guy the morning after. I set the paper back down on the nightstand with a smile then head down to the kitchen.
I’m not usually a love at first sight kind of gal, but this kitchen might have me changing my stance on the subject.
All the appliances are top of the line, it’s perfectly lit, and so big my entire bedroom could fit in here with room to spare. There’s even a drying rack hanging over the kitchen sink, and don’t even get me started on the counter space.
Oh, yeah, I’m definitely in love with this kitchen.
Maybe I can convince him to let me come back and bake in here.
Just the thought of using this kitchen to try some of the new recipes I’ve found has me bouncing on my toes like a tiny child.
If I play my cards right, he might even help me film a video for my channel here.
The angry grumble of my stomach puts a stop to fantasizing about anything other than breakfast.
When I read the note, I’d just planned on rummaging in his pantry for some cereal, but after seeing this kitchen, there’s no way I could be that disrespectful to it. I have to at least make an omelet or pancakes or something.
No wonder he comes home and immediately starts cooking again. I would too if this were my kitchen.
What I’d thought was a permanent knot of tension between my shoulder blades is gone. I feel so light and free that I find myself humming as I whip up an omelet.
While I’m cooking, I text my mom to let her know I’m okay and will be heading home soon. Then I call the car company from the business card and schedule a pickup for an hour from now.
