Avery:
Walking into my apartment after a twelve-hour shift, I expected a pile of laundry, maybe a crusty coffee mug still on the counter, and the faint scent of antiseptic lingering in my hair. I did not expect Mr. Stone Cold Biker standing in my kitchen shirtless, spaghetti sauce dripping down his hard abs, holding a wooden spoon like it was a damn weapon.
There were red roses on the table.
A chilled bottle of the exact wine I hoard after long nights sitting waiting for me on the counter.
And smoke. Not enough to set off the alarms, but enough to haze the room in a subtle layer of ambiance s***h slight kitchen crisis. I caught the sharp scent of overdone garlic bread and bit back a laugh.
He looked up like a deer caught in the headlights. Or rather, like a six foot two wall of lean m
