Chapter 47 Avery
Chapter forty-seven
Avery
Olive’s moan sends a shiver down my spine, adrenaline spiking through me.
"You like it?" I ask, watching her eyes flutter closed as she swallows.
She picks up a napkin and dabs her lips.
"This," she says, shaking her head in disbelief, "is what it was supposed to taste like?"
A teasing smile tugs at her lips, remembering my sad attempt to make this same dish right after we got married.
Our first official date as husband and wife.
I shake my head with a smirk. "Whatever. You and I both know I tried my best that day."
"Your best should probably be left out of the kitchen," she jokes. "But still, I love you for trying. And I love you even more for bringing me here." A soft blush warms her sun-kissed skin as she looks around.
We’re sitting cliffside, overlooking the beach in Albufeira, Portugal, and for once, everything feels exactly right.
By the time her tour ended, she was burned out. Tired of the travel, the nonstop go-go-go, and just needed to be still.
I asked if she wanted to go home, spend time with her family. Told her I’d follow her anywhere if she wanted me to. But she just shook her head.
"Grangewood Creek isn’t going anywhere. My family isn’t going anywhere. Let’s get away for a little while. Just the two of us."
Then she gave me that smile. The one that always knocks the wind out of me. Two days later, we flew into Lisbon. I’d booked a private villa, just for us.
It’s been our home base as we travel the country—eating like royalty, meeting people who have no idea who we are.
Olive’s even joined a few buskers, clueless that they were singing next to the Olive Herring.
We’ve been away for months.
And while I don’t miss the grind, I do miss the game.
I didn’t expect my love for basketball to fade, and maybe it won't.
But I’m at peace with sleeping in, not getting chewed out by my coach, and not seeing my face plastered on every gossip article in the country.
Olive, though… I can see it in her eyes. She misses the music. The stage.
Whenever I leave to grab food or take a shower, I always come back to her on the couch.
Guitar in her lap. Notebook in front of her. Lyrics scribbled everywhere.
She never lets me read them, but that’s okay.
She’s writing for herself, not for anyone else.
"You said you always wanted to come here," I tell her with a shrug as the server clears our plates. "So I had to show you."
"Any desserts?" The server smiles at both of us, and we nod frantically, already decided before we even sat down.
"Could we please get four of the Pastel de Nata," Olive says, pointing at the custard tarts on the menu in case her pronunciation is off.
The server nods, taking away our menus before disappearing into the crowd of customers and workers.
"Trying to get me out of shape?" I scoff, sipping my beer which’ll do more damage than any custard tart ever could.
"And I’ll love you no matter what."
I’ll never forget the first time she told me she loved me.
It was right after the press conference, when she stood by me like her life depended on it.
We went back to my place with everyone close to us, and she’d arranged for a ‘Happy Retirement’ cake to be delivered.
While everyone stood around talking and laughing, Olive rose on her toes, kissed me when no one was watching, and whispered that she loved me.
That she’d love me forever. That she was mine, if I’d have her.
For the rest of my life.
And that’s when I finally realized: I’d won.
Whatever battle, whatever war I had been waging within myself…I’d come out on top.
When Hank Herring pulled me aside and offered his blessing to marry his daughter, something swelled in my throat that I couldn’t swallow down.
Of course, we were already married.
But he said if I wanted to propose for real—to renew our vows in front of everyone we loved—he had my back.
Now, sitting across from her, those beautiful hazel eyes locked on mine like there’s nowhere else she’d rather be, it hits me.
That tiny box in my pocket feels impossibly heavy.
"Where’s that mind wandered to, Avery Jones?"
She props her elbows on the table, chin resting on her interlaced fingers.
She hates surprises.
And if I were to tell her the truth, I’d say—I’m wondering if your family’s made it to the beach I reserved for your proposal.
If the photographer’s hidden well enough.
If you’ll say yes.
But I can’t tell her any of that.
What kind of husband would I be if I spoiled the most special surprise yet?
"It’s always on you, Songbird. Always on you."