Allena
Following the scent of sizzling butter down the grand staircase, I found the kitchen. Jack was standing by the stove, wearing a dark apron over his rolled-up sleeves. He was expertly flipping an omelet, looking entirely too attractive for his own good.
Edible, even.
I shook my head hard. I desperately needed to scrub those thoughts from my brain for the sake of my own sanity.
"Hey," I said tentatively, shifting from foot to foot before sliding onto a sleek leather barstool.
He slid a plate in front of me. The omelet was golden-brown and perfect. "Eat," he commanded, already turning back to the stove to start another.
I picked up my fork, a smirk tugging at my lips. "Don't tell me you still haven't learned how to cook anything besides an omelet?"
"Hey, you don't mess with perf
