17. Eliana
Eliana
The place was breathtaking in its simplicity, surrounded by towering pines and the soft lap of water against the shore.
There were no grand gates, no expensive cars waiting outside, no polished marble or staff moving quietly through the rooms. For the first time since I'd met Adrian, he looked less like a billionaire and more like a man who belonged nowhere else.
I noticed the change immediately. He was quieter than usual.
His teasing smile appeared less often, replaced by long stretches of silence as he looked around the cottage as though every corner carried a memory.
Sometimes his gaze would settle on a particular piece of furniture or a painting, and something unreadable would pass through his eyes before he looked away.
Inside, the cottage felt warm and lived in.
Books were stacked across old wooden shelves, some neatly arranged and others left in uneven piles.
A piano stood beside the large window facing the water, its dark surface catching the afternoon light.
Framed landscape paintings covered several of the walls, most of them depicting the surrounding woods and shoreline in different seasons.
The scent of cedar filled the rooms, mixed with the faint smell of the sea drifting through the open windows.
It was nothing like Adrian's penthouse. There, everything had been immaculate. Expensive. Perfectly arranged. This place felt different. It felt like someone had actually lived here.
Adrian disappeared into the kitchen to prepare tea while I wandered farther into the cottage, taking my time as I looked at everything.
I ran my fingers lightly over the spines of the books, stopping whenever a familiar title caught my attention.
There were novels, poetry collections, biographies, even several old books with worn covers that looked as though they'd been read dozens of times.
“You actually read all these?” I called.
“Most of them.”
I smiled. “I'm impressed.”
“Don't sound so surprised.”
“I've seen your schedule. I assumed billionaires only read financial reports.”
His quiet laugh came from the kitchen. “I have many hidden talents.”
“Such as?”
“Making excellent tea.”
I shook my head, smiling as I continued down the hallway.
That's when I noticed the door. It was different from the others. The wooden surface was darker and older, its brass handle dulled with age. A thin layer of dust covered the edges of the frame, making it obvious that the room hadn't been opened in a long time.
I stopped in front of it.
“Adrian?”
The sound of footsteps approached from behind me. He appeared at the end of the hallway carrying two cups of tea. The moment his eyes landed on the door, something changed in his expression. Only for a fraction of a second. Then his usual composure returned.
“What's in there?” I asked.
Adrian glanced at the door before looking at me. “Nothing interesting.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Then why is it locked?”
He smiled easily, but his eyes didn't quite match it. “I lost the key years ago.”
I studied him. There was something about the answer that sounded rehearsed, as though he'd prepared it long before I'd ever asked.
“You lost it?”
“Unfortunately.”
“And you never had the lock replaced?”
His smile remained, but his fingers tightened slightly around the cup. “I suppose I never found a reason to.”
I looked at the door again, then at him. There was sadness in his eyes that didn't belong with the casual answer he'd given me.
I could have pushed. I could have asked what was inside, why he'd kept the room locked, why the sight of that door had made his entire expression change. But something told me he wasn't ready.
So I simply nodded. “Okay.”
Relief surfaced on his face so quickly I almost missed it.
He held out one of the cups. “Tea?”
I accepted it. “Tea.”
We returned to the living room, and for a while we sat beside the window overlooking the water. Adrian seemed more relaxed, though every so often his gaze drifted toward the hallway.
I decided not to ask again.
Instead, I took another sip of tea and looked at him over the rim of my cup. “So, Mr. Ashford, what exactly are we eating tonight?”
He looked at me. “Whatever you can cook.”
I nearly choked on my tea. “Excuse me?”
He grinned. “I thought romance writers knew how to cook.”
“That's a ridiculous stereotype.”
“Then prove me wrong.”
I narrowed my eyes. “You want to challenge me?”
“Absolutely.”
Ten minutes later, we were both standing in the kitchen.
What began as an attempt to prepare a simple dinner quickly turned into a quiet battle over everything from the amount of garlic to whether the pasta needed more salt. I had barely reached for the seasoning when Adrian caught my wrist and gave me a disapproving look.
“You're putting too much in,” he said, glancing at the bowl as though I had committed some unforgivable culinary offense.
I looked from the seasoning to him. “You've barely put any in.”
“Because I know what I'm doing.” He released my wrist and reached for the knife, studying the way I was holding it before giving me another skeptical look. “And you're holding that incorrectly.”
I looked down at the knife, then back at him. “Are you seriously criticizing the way I cut vegetables?”
A faint smile tugged at his mouth. “I'm trying to prevent you from injuring yourself.”
“I've managed to survive this long without your supervision.”
“And yet you followed me all the way out here.”
I tried to suppress my smile, but his knowing expression told me he had noticed anyway. “Don't get smug,” I warned, turning back toward the counter.
“I wasn't going to,” he replied, although the amusement in his voice made it obvious that he absolutely was.
A moment later, he reached for a piece of cheese I'd just cut. I slapped his hand away before he could take it.
“That is for dinner.”
“I was tasting it,” he said, looking entirely unapologetic.
“You were stealing it.”
“There is a difference.”
“Not when you're taking my food.”
He waited until I turned back toward the stove before stealing another piece. When I caught him, I stared at him in disbelief.
“Adrian.”
“What?” He looked at me innocently, the corner of his mouth lifting.
“That was mine.”
“Not anymore.”
I shook my head, but instead of arguing, I reached over and stole a piece of pasta from his plate. His eyebrows rose as he watched me eat it.
“Did you just steal from me?”
“You started it,” I replied, trying not to laugh.
He studied me for a second before shaking his head. “I believe we're going to have problems.”
“You'll survive.”
The cooking continued with considerably less dignity than either of us had started with.
Flour ended up scattered across the counter, sauce splashed onto the stove, and Adrian eventually tried to take control of the pan while insisting that I was about to ruin dinner.
I caught his hand before he could reach for the spoon.
“You're banned from the kitchen,” I told him.
His eyebrows lifted. “This is my kitchen.”
“Not tonight.”
He laughed, and the sound filled the little cottage so naturally that I found myself smiling before I even realized it. There was something strangely comforting about seeing him like this, without the polished suits, business calls, and carefully controlled expression he wore everywhere else.
Then his phone rang.
Adrian glanced at the screen and sighed when he saw Walter's name. “Walter.”
He answered reluctantly. “What?”
Walter's panicked voice was loud enough that I could hear it from across the kitchen. Adrian closed his eyes and rubbed the bridge of his nose.
“Yes, Walter, I'm alive,” he said patiently. “No, I haven't been kidnapped.”
I covered my mouth, already fighting a laugh.
Adrian listened for a moment before looking increasingly exasperated. “No, you don't need to call the police. I'm on vacation, remember?”
Whatever Walter said next made Adrian's expression flatten.
“I told you where I was going.”
He paused, listening again.
“No, I don't care that I haven't answered my emails.”
Another pause.
His gaze settled on me.
“I am not firing you.”
I raised my eyebrows.
Adrian's mouth twitched. “Yet.”
That was enough to make me burst out laughing.
He gave me a warning look, although the amusement in his own eyes betrayed him. “Walter, if you call me three more times tonight, I will personally reconsider that decision.”
He ended the call and placed his phone on the counter.
“He really thought you'd been kidnapped?” I asked, still laughing.
Adrian sighed. “Apparently, my absence has caused an administrative crisis.”
“Or he's terrified of you.”
“He should be.”
I laughed again, reaching for the bowl of pasta, but my hands were still shaking from laughing so hard. The bowl slipped slightly, and Adrian immediately caught it before it could fall. His hand closed over mine, steadying both the bowl and my fingers.
Our laughter faded.
For a moment, we simply looked at each other.
His hand remained over mine, warm and reassuring, while the distant sound of waves reached us through the open window. There was flour dusted across his shirt and a streak of sauce near his sleeve, details that would have seemed completely out of place on the Adrian Ashford everyone else knew.
But here, in this old cottage, they felt right.
His expression softened as he looked at me.
For tonight, he wasn't the billionaire with secrets, the businessman surrounded by reporters and responsibilities, or the man whose carefully guarded past I couldn't stop wondering about.
He was simply Adrian, standing in an old kitchen with flour on his shirt, sauce on his sleeve, and his hand wrapped around mine.
And somehow, this version of him felt more real than anything I'd ever known.