One Summer with the Sinner (Monteverde Series 5)

35

Chapter Thirty-Five

VANE JASON

I have always imagined what it would feel like to wake up next to the love of your life, to reach your hand out and feel their skin as they lay next to you, to see their calm breaths in the morning as they snore, to admire beauty in its truest and rawest form – but I guess I'd find out what that feels like when we get there. Because right now as I wake up and fix the sheets, I felt a sudden excitement to knock on the guest room door and see if Asheng is already awake.

After brushing my teeth and quickly combing my hair using my fingers, I headed out of the room and walked to the other side of the second floor where the guest room was situated. I found the door slightly ajar, but still, I knocked. I don't want to invade her privacy and have her think that I'm taking advantage just because she's in my home. I want her to feel safe, comfortable, and at ease.

I knocked thrice, but no one answered. I called her name, yet no one responded.

The curiosity got the best of me, so I pushed the door open and flicked the switch on and what I saw sent panic streaming in my veins. The bed had been made perfectly – as if it hadn't been slept on. The pieces of luggage I helped her carry upstairs yesterday were nowhere to be found. I went closer and couldn't even find a single strand of hair on the bedsheet, on the pillows, yet it still faintly held her scent.

Shit.

Have I scared her with my confession? Has she left? Has she changed her mind?

Suddenly, I heard movement coming from the kitchen. I ran down the stairs as quickly as I can that I almost tripped on the last two steps coming down. I cursed inwardly. I have a habit of almost tripping whenever she's in my mind. I must have fallen for her pretty hard.

I stopped, dead in my tracks. I'm standing at the foot of the stairs where I had a clear view of the kitchen and the dining area.

She's here. She's still here.

And she's cooking in my kitchen, wearing my apron, holding my spatula, using my pans.

Oh my God. She's still here.

The relief came washing over me. I stayed still and silent. I just want to watch her move nimbly. She was singing a slow French song that I didn't understand, but I sensed that she had a smile on her face as she worked on our breakfast. From what I could smell, it seems like we're having some pancakes. Maybe that's why she had asked to include blueberries and strawberries on our grocery yesterday. She fished the fruits out from the refrigerator and set them on the counter next to her. She flipped the pancakes and put the spatula down before she turned.

Our eyes met.

She smiled – that smile always gets me. Every single time.

"Good morning." She motioned to the apron. It had a large print in front that said macho guapito. It was gifted to me by one of my fans last year for my birthday. My heart swells seeing her in it. "I'm making breakfast. I saw on an interview that you had three years ago that you don't always have the energy to get up and cook for yourself in the morning, so..."

"You watched my interviews?" I am amused and shy at the same time.

"All fifty-four of them."

"What?!" First, I didn't know I've already attended that many interviews. Second, who'd have patience to watch all fifty-four of those where I'm asked to just talk about myself and nothing else. "That's... a lot."