When I pulled into the driveway, Aiden’s car was already there, as usual. The sight was becoming a routine—his sleek black beast parked like it owned the place. Maybe it did. And maybe I was just the guest who kept forgetting he owned the place. As I stepped inside, the smell hit me first—garlic, tomatoes, something savory—and then I saw him.There he was, standing in the kitchen, shirtless, of course, because apparently, shirts were for losers. He had one hand on a pot and the other holding a wooden spoon like some culinary Picasso. A glass of wine sat on the counter, perfectly untouched, like a model in a photo shoot.“Are you… cooking?” I said, announcing myself like an emcee at a circus. Aiden turned to face me, a small smile tugging at his lips but never quite reaching his eyes. Something was off, and my “what’s-wrong-now” radar beeped quietly in the background.“I had never in my life imagined I’d see you, Aiden Scott, cooking anything,” I added, inching closer. “Shirtless, for
Last Updated : 2025-01-13 Read more