POV: TYLER
Autumn has truly arrived, after all.
This is what I think as I lie on my sofa, cozily wrapped in the warmest blanket I could find given the time of the year.
A faint breeze stirs the leaves outside, blowing them past the windows and glass doors. And I cannot resist the urge to snuggle deeper into my improvised cocoon. It's not the cold seasons I dislike. It's the finality of summer's end, this chill settling into me, that I can't stand.
I suppose I should have known better than to walk home from work. But damn, Cambridge in mid-October is irresistible! The city is so beautiful that I could never give up the pleasure of strolling along the riverbank on Massachusetts Avenue near Harvard Square, where the first colors of autumn paint the trees gold, orange and red.
And now here I am, shaking like a leaf and giggling at the thought of my mother if she saw me right now. She would say something about my stupid habit of not wearing a scarf, and she'd be right.
Well, it's not the end of the world, after all. My feet are beginning to come back to life, the television flickers with an old film I can't bring myself to follow, and my hands cradle the fading warmth of Earl Grey. All of it leaves me suspended in a quiet moment, wondering how to make the evening ahead even... better.
I could start by turning off the TV and lighting the fire. Maybe put on some good music, and find a candle or two…
"Are you going to drink that tea, or will it grow cold, as usual?" A slightly mocking voice asks from the kitchen doorway, the exact moment I catch a whiff of chocolate and coconut in the air.
Good God, Becks has really decided to drive me crazy!
When I look over my shoulder, there she is, leaning against the wooden door frame. Even from the sofa, I can see the mess behind her silhouette, as she tilts her chin in my direction, her figure lit up by the last rays of this late afternoon.
She stands with one hand in the pocket of the black trousers she usually wears at home, her lips curled into a smirk that always spells trouble. Her light blonde hair falls around her face like an angelic halo, taking my breath away as it always does.
She really looks like one of those angels with stunning blue eyes who has just fallen to earth.
Yeah, the kind that would tempt a saint.
"So?"
"Do I really have to answer you?"
"I don't know. You tell me," she teases, nudging herself away from the door to cover the short distance between us.
Something about her slightly androgynous look - her oversized gray sweater, baggy black pants, that ridiculous red apron reading "bossy woman in the house" - makes her impossibly charming today, and I catch myself smiling, shifting against the softness of the sofa just to follow the easy grace of her movements.
When she stretches her right hand toward me, my gaze drifts from her perfectly manicured fingers to the rings I've always loved to toy with.
"Come on, give me that tea."
I raise an eyebrow in half disbelief. "Are you serious?"
But of course she is. And I know I can't resist her playful attitude. When Avery Beckett is in this mood, there's no winning. So I surrender the mug with an exaggerated sigh, watching fascinated as my wife drinks it all in one slow sip, never breaking eye contact.
"Okay, love of my life. If you wanted to turn me on, you just scored a slam dunk in overtime."
The smirk on her lips grows wider, and she doesn't even try to hide it. She leaves the mug on the coffee table near the controller she uses to mute the TV, and in less than a second, her fingers brush the fabric of my T-shirt before coming to rest on my chest, right above the beat of my racing heart.
"I need you to get rid of this ridiculous thing you insist on wearing," Avery mutters with that sexy, sultry voice of hers that sends chills down my spine.
"Not happening, not today. You have to deal with it on your own, if you want it done,” I raise my chin in pure defiance, knowing exactly what game we're playing now.
Her eyes narrow, that dangerous glint appearing in their depths. "Is that a challenge?"
Oh, if it is!
And almost as if acting on their own, my arms opens and I stretch them wide across the back of the sofa, feigning nonchalance as I display the T-shirt I'm wearing. It features a super-deformed version of a bard cat playing a lute. Righley bought me this masterpiece online for my twenty-eighth birthday, in honour of the D&D nights which, for various reasons, we haven't enjoyed in years.
"So I can't ask my wife to undress, now? Because, you know, the cake won't be ready for another thirty minutes..."
I swallow again. Harder this time. Damn it! Avery knows exactly how to play her cards. I know the cake is just a pretense. She's been baking far more than usual lately, experimenting with all kinds of recipes and ingredients, her mind always focused on something new. But this sudden urge to cook is her way of dealing with a loss of inspiration that has little to do with cakes, chocolate chips and frosting.
"Thirty minutes, you said?"
"Mm-hmm. That should give us enough time to... I don't know... explore each other's artistic sides in more intriguing ways than a minstrel cat would ever understand. What do you say?"
"That the cat is bard," I grin, because Avery couldn't remember a class to save her life, but when she straddles me, the difference doesn't matter anymore, even to me.
"A bard. Right," she murmurs against my lips. Her hands find their way under my shirt onto the warm, bare skin of my stomach and slowly work their way upwards. I shiver with anticipation. And when her lips descend on my neck, I'm done for.
It would be so easy to take control, push her down on the sofa, and worship every inch of her skin. But if I do, thirty minutes won't be enough, and that damn cake will burn in the oven.
So I close my eyes instead, and let Avery dictate the pace of whatever she wants us to do.
Moving from my neck to my jaw, her lips ascend to my ear, and I swallow. Or rather, I try to. My throat suddenly feels dry, every coherent thought disappearing somewhere under those blankets covering me, and that's exactly when my phone starts ringing.
Shit!
Without thinking, I reach blindly for that damn thing, not even considering breaking contact. Thankfully, when my left hand finally finds it, the buzzing suddenly stops and Avery softly bites my lower lip.
"Do you want to see who it was?"
"Not in a thousand years!"
"Uhm... Okay, I have to confess, I didn't expect it from someone as considerate as you. You are full of surprises this evening, my little bard."
"I am not little," I say. After all, I'm six feet tall. "And definitely, I'm not a bard. I'm a paladin, in case you forgot," I remind her, before she parts the blanket and reaches for the hem of my trousers. This time, I can't help but moan as I feel her body pressing firmly against mine.
The phone rings again, though, with that annoying and constant buzz that sends shivers down my hand. This time Avery glances in its direction, and she suddenly freezes, a shadow crossing her features.
I stop smiling on the spot and follow her gaze towards the screen, where the country code +44 - followed by unrecognized digits - now blinks.
"Who is it?" Avery asks, and I shrug.
"I don't know. It's from the UK, though."
The words catch in my throat and Avery gets up from my lap to sit beside me. I can sense the change in her mood straight away. But I wouldn't be able to blame her even if I wanted to. The last time we got a call from England, someone had died.
"Take it. It could be..."
I don't let her finish, because I already know what she's thinking. My finger hovers over the screen for a moment before I swipe to answer.
"Hello?"
"Tyler?"
Eleanor.
A familiar voice on the other side of the line crosses space and time to reach us, and my breath catches. "Els? Is it you?"
"Who else could it be? Missed my lovely British accent?" Our old friend jokes, her voice a little too cheerful for my liking as I force myself to breathe. After our last phone call, her light, cheerful tone feels kinda... off.
Or maybe it's just guilt biting at my ankles.
We were supposed to attend her father's funeral about a month and a half ago, but we couldn't get out of some prior commitments. Even now, I can't shake the feeling we failed our best friends by not going. And spectacularly so.
"Is it the wrong time of the day? Did I interrupt something?"
Avery raises an eyebrow, and I clear my voice again, trying to sound unaffected. "No, uhm, sorry. I'm putting you on speaker. Here. Avery is here with me. Where are you, by the way?"
"Back in Kent, calling from the landline. We got a new number after dad… you know," she trails off, before adding: "It's been the worst windy day ever, today, and the mobile signal is gone from hours. Yet I couldn't postpone the call until tomorrow. By the way, hi, Becks!"
"Hi, Els. It's nice to hear you."
"Same here. And I apologize for the sudden call. It was not my intention to disturb you at such an ungodly hour, because it is, isn't it? I keep forgetting the difference with Greenwich."
"Relax! It's almost 6 p.m. here. But it must be quite late for you?" I guess, quickly calculating the time difference. If I'm right, it should be past 11 p.m. in the UK.
"Yes, well. Indeed," she chuckles again, and I know right away that something's wrong. Eleanor Cavendish is a bright person, but her sense of humor gets twisted under stress, and this one reeks of it. In spades.
"Els, what's happening? Is everything fine?"
"Uhm... yeah. Kind of," she hesitates again, letting out a soft sigh. "Am I that predictable?"
"Just a little, but only because we know you practically since we were born."
"Right," she says, and a sudden memory flashes through my mind. A very familiar image of a very familiar place. Summer breeze, chirping birds, laughter of children running around a red brick well, covered in ivy, an omnipresent mustard-colored scarf abandoned somewhere as a testament to Eleanor's presence.
And the manor itself, imposing at the top of the hill. I remember it too.
Whenever we arrived, Eleanor was always there in the shadow of those great wooden doors, eager and confident, one hand in her pocket, the other waving until the car finally stopped. She wouldn't rest until we reached her, our arms intertwined, excitement sparkling in her green eyes.
It seems like a life ago now, a dreamlike vision that vanishes once awake. And, indeed, it is. A life ago, I mean.
"Actually," Eleanor continues, and I can hear her taking a breath, "I'm calling because I need to ask you both something. And before you say anything, I know it's going to be a lot to ask… and I'm sorry about it. Specially, for the short notice."
"Never mind. Just tell us what's happening, okay?" I press, and Avery tenses beside me her uneasiness growing with each passing second. I feel it too, the memory of our last call still lingering in my mind. Eleanor's voice broken by tears, the sudden news of her father's death like a bolt from the blue.
From the other end of the line, I can hear every tiny muffled sound: the rustle of papers and muted footsteps moving around. "I have... news," Eleanor says after a while, and I distinctly hear another creak, like she's closing a door, locking herself somewhere. In the library, probably, or in the study that looks out into the garden.
Suddenly, the past and the present mingle together and I cannot bear her hesitation any longer.
"Eleanor, please, I'm begging you! You're making us very nervous. Is something going on? Where's Righley? Is she fine?"
There is a brief pause, the sound of papers being rearranged. And then, perhaps realizing how her silence might be misread, she finally hastens to clarify. "No, Jesus, I'm sorry! I didn't mean to worry you. Of course Righley is fine. She's just fallen asleep. It's been a long day, and she's been struggling with the connection almost nonstop. You can imagine how frustrated she was by evening's end."
Both me and Avery exchange a look, and I shrug. Of course I can imagine Righley's frustration. She's never been good with technology failures, especially when she has deadlines looming. The image of her pacing around, muttering curses at the router, brings a small smile to my face despite the tension.
"How on earth can you still have network problems in 2024?"
"I guess that's what you call 'living in the country'," Eleanor snorts, her voice drenched in the English sarcasm that has always made her, well, her. "But don't worry about Righley. To be honest, she asked me to apologize for not being part of the conversation and really hopes to see you soon," Eleanor sums up. "Actually, that's the reason I'm calling."
I tilt my head and look again in Avery's direction. She is not frowning anymore. On the contrary, her expression is slowly turning into a hopeful, mischievous smile, and a sudden thought hits me hard.
"Wait! Wait, wait, wait! Els, are you perhaps telling us that you have finally pro-"
"Tyler Aldridge! How come you can only think about that?"
"Oh, come on! It's about time you two took a damn step."
"Yeah, okay, who knows. In any case, I'm not going to talk about this sort of thing over a phone," Eleanor protests, but behind her vehemence, it seems to me there's a slight embarrassment that wasn't there before.
Did I hit the jackpot?
"Unfortunately, however, this is not the reason why I am calling. The truth is, I received a call from a solicitor in London this afternoon."
A solicitor?
I raise my eyebrows and glance at Avery, finding the same confusion in her eyes. Of everything Eleanor could have said, this is the last thing I would have expected.56Please respect copyright.ＰＥＮＡＮＡMyrfdIwNHa
and then Add to home screen.