The villa smelled like food long before he ever reached the wrought-iron gate.
It wasn't a quick, thrown-together meal. Whatever she had decided to make, it had been simmering on the stove for at least an hour, probably much longer. The rich, earthy aroma drifted all the way down the garden path to meet him in the crisp winter air. It was the distinct scent of a kitchen that had been occupied and purposeful for a good portion of the afternoon.
It was the kind of smell that wasn't merely about satisfying hunger. It was about something else entirely. It was an anchor.
Vane pushed the heavy wooden door open.
Mara was standing at the kitchen counter. Her back was to him. Her dark hair was tied up in the familiar, severely practical knot she favored when working, and her sleeves were pushed up past her elbows.
