Harper possessed a rare talent - she could blend two worlds that the universe swore could never coexist: her humdrum life as an accountant by day with her steamy famous alter ego crafting erotic tales online by night.
But her double life unravels in...
❝And it's not fair I keep on writing a sequel to stories I know that are not there I don't wanna die but I don't wanna live like this❞
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I wanted to eat the air.
Aiden had managed to cook up a delectable storm that could compete at the Flavor Olympics, boasting Indian spices arm-wrestling with a mouth-watering Italian sauce and seasoned ground beef.
Resisting the joke I'd been perpetuating since our subway ride back to the apartment, he'd instead decided to make lasagne. My offer to help had been dismissed with a firm "No, thanks," which had more to do with—what I was starting to place as—obsessive control issues than any genuine desire to save me from the horrors of cooking.
After changing into my cozy loungewear, I joined him back in the open kitchen and settled down on the other side of the island, my eyes glued to Aiden's culinary theatrics. His cooking style mirrored what little I'd discovered of his personality. He cooked with a ferocity like he'd been sent straight from Hell's Kitchen to make my life more, well, hellish.
Aiden moved around the kitchen like a man possessed, handling lasagne sheets with the grace of a seasoned dancer. Each pasta layer was an exquisite canvas, and he was the artist applying strokes of spicy tomato sauce with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. Garam masala rained down like confetti, and the cumin and coriander turned the air into an irresistible aromatic maze.
After what felt like a century of preparation, Aiden turned his back to me and put the lasagne safely in the oven. He stepped back and let out a sigh of contentment.
"It should be done in 40 minutes."
Just as I was contemplating whether to give up and (silently) declare him the culinary overlord of the apartment, he glanced in my direction, his face a strange mix of surprise and faux indignation.
"Harper, you creep. Will you quit stalking me? I'm trying to cook here."
I smirked, realizing the callback to our first meeting.
"I apologize but it's rare for an asshat like yourself to display such raw talent, I can't help but watch."
He smiled, a rare display of his dimples that made my heart do a little somersault. I chose to ignore it, instead focusing on the tension that still lingered in the air, but beneath it all, there was a strange sort of camaraderie. It was as if, for this brief moment, we had set aside our rivalry and shared a glimpse of our true selves.
"Well, in that case, I might consider sharing some cooking tips with you in exchange for you not playing Taylor Swift again for a month."
I raised an eyebrow, feigning contemplation.
"You drive a hard bargain, chef. Taylor is legendary, you know."
He moved over to my side of the kitchen island and extended a hand. I looked down at it and back at him then shrugged.
