by Naima Simone
“In two weeks, she’s having a body-painting opening with several artists,” Noelle explained, dragging her gaze from the rock-hard strength of his thighs pressing against dark denim, to the depths of her green tea. “She wants me to be one of those featured.”
“That’s a good thing, no?”
She hesitated. “Yes.” She shifted her gaze over his shoulder, uncertain how much she wanted to confide in him. “I’m excited about the opportunity, even if this particular art is new to me. But…I’m also a little…afraid. At the Art Institute,” she continued, referring to the School of the Art Institute of Chicago, “I felt safe to display my work. Growing up, I might not have been the prettiest, or the smartest, or the richest, but damn, I could draw. All those pictures in my head, I could bring to life on paper or canvas. No one could take that away from me. But even in college, sharing that part of myself with others had been terrifying. Rejection wasn’t a possibility in my world but a fact. It’s been two years since I’ve graduated, and no one has seen my work. I’m not going to lie,” she said, huffing out a soft chuckle. “I’m nervous as hell that people besides my professors and other students will see my art…and in a gallery show.”
For the first time since she started her explanation, she dared a peek at his face. And when he didn’t say anything, just studied her with that inscrutable expression, she fidgeted, touching her ponytail, and loosed another laugh. This one more uncomfortable.
“I know you probably don’t understand.”
He cocked his head to the side. “Why do you say that?”
She shook her head. “I remember meeting you. Even then, at sixteen, you had this innate sense of confidence. I mean look at you. You rose from a small home on the South Side of Chicago to a millionaire several times over who owns a penthouse that resembles a palace in the sky.” She waved a hand as if encompassing the beautiful space around her. No, he wouldn’t understand. And facing his disbelief, or worse, pity, would’ve brought her breakfast back for a Hey, how you doing? “Anyway. Shouldn’t you be at work?” she asked, changing the subject with all the subtlety of a sledgehammer. “I’m feeling better today, so if you want to go into the office, I’ll be fine by myself.”
He studied her for a long moment, and she struggled not to fidget or duck her head to avoid that all-too-perceptive stare. “No,” he said. “I’ve been working from home the past few days. One more won’t matter.”
Warmth stole through her, and she searched his impassive expression, trying to discover even the glimmer of a reason why he would’ve stayed.
“I—thank you,” she whispered. “For…everything.”
“You’re welcome,” he said, in the same soft voice. “And Noelle? I do understand. More than you know.” A beat of silence pulsed between them, and she stared into his emerald gaze, ensnared. He rose from his chair, shattering the moment. “You have several more days of the Tamiflu the doctor prescribed. I know you’re feeling better, but he said to make sure you take the full course. And also to take it easy.” He nodded toward the living room. “I made up the couch for you in case you’d like a change of scenery.”
“Why?” The question burst from her without permission. And immediately she cursed her unruly tongue. But when he arched an eyebrow, she forged ahead, heedless of the fact that his answer might deliver a ringing smackdown to her feelings. “Why did you stay? Take care of me?”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“Because you don’t like me. You resent me,” she pointed out, hating the hurt that slid through her. “Or did that somehow slip your mind?”
Another of those scalpel-like stares. Another time she forced herself not to hide from it. She wanted to see the truth in his eyes. Catch the distance, the aloofness, and store it away for those moments when her resolve to keep her distance started to weaken and slip.
She waited. And waited. But nothing. His hooded gaze revealed nothing. God, she envied that talent.
“I haven’t forgotten anything,” he murmured. Then he turned and left the room, leaving her to follow or return to her room and hole up, avoiding him for the rest of the day.
Standing, she picked up her mug…and followed.
And once she entered the living room, she had to blink back the sudden sting of tears.
By “made up the couch,” he meant creating a nest of sheets, blankets, and pillows that called to her tired body. On some of Caroline’s better days, Noelle would come home from class and find the other woman settled on the living room couch, cuddled in the same comfortable arrangement. With Aiden sitting on the floor, keeping watch over her.
She glanced at him, and in that moment, understanding granted her new eyes.
He’d taken care of her because it’s what he did. He was a caretaker.
Just like her.
Part of her hurt for him. Like with Noelle, their roles had been reversed, the child becoming the parent. By choice, commitment, and love. She suspected he couldn’t have walked away from Noelle even if he wanted to—which he probably had after suffering through the chemo effects with Caroline.
But the other part of her…hurt for herself. Dumb. Idiot. For even just a second allowing herself to believe it’d been personal. This was about duty, about obligation to his mother, not her.
Aiden tossed back the top covers and gestured toward the couch. Ducking her head, afraid he would see too much, she lowered to the makeshift bed and couldn’t contain the sigh that broke past her lips. After days of non-activity, the shower, dressing, and breakfast had sapped what little energy she had.
“Here’s the remote.” Aiden turned on the mounted, fifty-two-inch, flatscreen TV, then passed her a gadget that looked like it should control the International Space Station rather than a television.
“Thank you.” She located the channel up and down buttons and started surfing. “Ooh,” she squeaked as the cafeteria of Forks High School filled the screen and the Cullens sauntered through the glass doors. Pressing the guide button, she scrolled forward and loosed a cackle that devolved into a dry cough. “And a marathon,” she rasped.
A large hand holding a cup of tea appeared in her line of vision. “Twilight?”
“Yep,” she said, accepting the mug and bracing herself for the teasing that usually followed when people discovered her obsession with the young-adult series. “Too late to rescind your offer of the remote, too.”
“I didn’t plan on it,” he assured her, sinking into the adjacent, large armchair. He picked up his laptop off the end table, his gaze fixed on the television. “Although, to be honest, I thought this was the weakest movie of the five.”
Surprise ricocheted through her. “One, no, it wasn’t. New Moon was the weakest. And two, you like Twilight?”
“Get out of here. The scene where Jacob transforms the first time automatically makes it better than this one. And yes, I like Twilight. What can I say? It’s a guilty pleasure. Vampires, werewolves, epic battles, great special effects…”
“An epic love story,” she added.
He grunted.
“Say what you want, Aiden. I do believe there may be a fourteen-year-old girl buried inside you just longing to break free.”
He arched an eyebrow, his expression bland. Except for the corner of his mouth that curled the smallest bit.
She snickered, returning her attention to the television. Huh. Twilight. Maybe he wasn’t all bad.
Eight hours later, she’d decided he might not be all bad, but the man definitely had a screw loose.
After New Moon, they’d traded the televised versions for the DVDs—because, yes, he had all five director’s-cut editions of the movies. Mind. Blown. But as the credits for the second half of Breaking Dawn rolled, an offhand comment about Jacob and Renesmee had evolved into an out-and-out debate.
“I understand Jacob had to come to terms with losing Bella, but having him imprint on a baby? Weird. And illegal,” Aiden drawled. At some point in the marathon, he’d shifted from the chair to the end of
the long couch. And if her legs were just a little longer, she would’ve kicked his thigh.
“It’s not weird. Bella and her daughter shared the same DNA. It was the soul of his future mate that called to him, not Bella. It made perfect sense as wolves have only one true half of themselves,” she argued. “And he’s waiting until she’s of age, so not illegal, either.”
He snorted, rising from the couch and stretched, revealing a slice of golden skin between the hem of his knit sweater and the waistband of his jeans. Glancing away, she busied herself with turning off the DVD player, refusing to become distracted by the glimpse of taut flesh.
“That’s another thing. He goes from brother and guardian to husband? That’s confusing. He’s imprinted on her because he’s a wolf. But she’s half vampire, half human. What if she doesn’t feel the same? What if she doesn’t want to go from bestie to wifey? I’m just saying, doesn’t seem probable.”
“They’re freaking vampires and shape-shifters. Of course it’s not probable,” she snapped. “You’re a damn killjoy.”
His chuckle floated back to her as he exited the room. She glared at his back, but soon the scowl faded, replaced by a reluctant smile. The day had been…wonderful. The best she’d had in…well… Since the last time they’d had a movie night. She’d always enjoyed his company, his humor, just sitting next to him and feeling his body heat seep into hers. That night—the one time he’d touched her—had started out watching movies before ending with his mouth on her lips, breasts, his hand between her legs bringing her the most devastating pleasure she’d ever experienced.
A ball of pressure lodged itself at the base of her throat, slowly expanding until she could barely breathe past it.
Duty. Obligation. Duty. Obligation.
She ran the mantra over in her head on an endless loop. They weren’t friends, weren’t even roommates. Too much lay between them to ever achieve the status of friends. The past. His resentment and hatred of her father and brother. The promise she’d forced his hand to fulfill.
And even if all those obstacles somehow magically disappeared, there was still her wariness of him. Of his ability to leave, disappear, expunge her from his life so easily. He’d done it before, and she didn’t trust him not to do it again. No, she was a temporary lodger that would be out in no more than two weeks. Then they wouldn’t have anything to do with each other as the admissions office at Boston University had already contacted her about her fully paid tuition.
This temporary cease-fire had an end date. Once she moved back into her apartment, she would return to persona non grata in his life. And he… Well, he would return to the man she tried to forget.
“Are you hungry?” Aiden asked, jerking her from the morose turn her thoughts had taken. He carried a tray in his hands, and her stomach sent out an SOS at the delicious aromas. He snorted. “I’ll take that as a yes.”
She blushed, but eagerly leaned back and let him settle the tray across her lap. Inhaling, she hummed, her eyes closing and her belly grumbling louder. “Butternut squash soup. My favorite.”
Smiling, she lifted her lashes, and her gaze clashed with his. For once, that stare wasn’t shuttered. All the moisture the lovely scents had brought to her mouth fled. Her heart gave a hard thud before sinking. His eyes reflected the warmth coiling low and hot between her legs. She squeezed her thighs against the sweet ache.
No. She had to be imagining that need, that hunger. Maybe the fever had returned, was clouding her judgment. Or eight hours of watching movies about love and romance had her seeing things that weren’t there. Couldn’t be there. Because Aiden went for sophisticated, cultured, wealthy women—women like Jocelyn.
And Noelle was… She was herself.
She blinked, and the desire disappeared. Releasing a soft, heavy sigh, she picked up her spoon and stirred the soup. Of course she’d been mistaken. She swallowed a hard crack of laughter. Besides, what about her right now could he possibly find attractive? The sloppy ponytail? The circles under her eyes? Or wait. Her provocative hoodie and sweatpants. Yep. That was definitely it.
Shaking her head, she dove into the soup with undignified greed. Half the bowl remained by the time her stomach cried “uncle” and came up for air.
“I was going to offer to take your plate, but I was afraid you’d bite my hand if I got between you and the soup,” Aiden said.
She arched an eyebrow. “I can’t make any promises I wouldn’t have.” She smirked. “I guess my appetite’s returning. It’s been years since I’ve had this. Your mom used to cook it all the time.”
As soon as the words popped out of her mouth, regret pulsed through her. Damn. The amusement drained from his eyes, and his lips flattened into a somber line. Just damn.
“I’m sorry,” she murmured, setting her spoon next to the bowl. “I didn’t think…”
“She used to fix it when I wasn’t feeling well. Much better than chicken soup,” he said. He emitted a soft grunt. “I haven’t thought about that in years. I guess ordering it was just instinctive.”
Noelle didn’t speak, warring with what to say. If she should say anything at all. There were days when she couldn’t bear to think about her father; the pain stole her breath away. And even though it’d been six years since Caroline had passed, she suspected sometimes the agony of losing his only parent, witnessing her waste away and not be able to do a damn thing about it, tortured Aiden. Frank had opted to drink his life away. Cancer had given Caroline no choice.
“I’m sorry,” she repeated. But when he waved her apology aside, she shook her head. “No, please. I know I’ve intruded on your life…just like Dad and I did when we were younger. I don’t blame you for resenting me then. Or now. I’m sharing your home. Eating your food. Sleeping in one of your bedrooms. And all because of a promise that wasn’t yours. Even after what my father did…” She swallowed hard, attempting to dislodge the shame and guilt blocking her windpipe. “I know an apology doesn’t fix his actions. But I’m still offering it to you.” Because even if he was alive, her father still wouldn’t have given Aiden one.
“Apology not accepted.”
She should’ve expected the rebuff. Still, the pain and embarrassment punched her in the chest, expelling the air from her lungs on a pained gasp.
Aiden leaned forward, propping his elbows on his thighs. His penetrating scrutiny pinned her like a butterfly to a corkboard. Instinctively, she flinched away from that stare. It saw too much, and she couldn’t bear if he glimpsed how much his rejection had hurt.
“I don’t blame you for your father’s theft, Noelle,” he murmured.
“Bullshit,” she breathed. “Besides, you can’t look at me without thinking about him.”
He dipped his chin, his blond hair gleaming in the lamp’s light. “That’s true,” he admitted. “Turn around,” he ordered, voice soft but with a vein of underlying steel.
Even before her mind questioned the command, she was twisting, facing the back of the couch.
“Lift your shirt.”
The hell? “What?” she asked, her head snapping around. “Excuse me?”
Instead of replying, he shifted forward until he perched on the edge of his chair and grasped the hem of the back of her shirt. Before she could turn around and demand to know what he was doing, he raised her hoodie. Cool air brushed over her skin.
Followed by the heat of his touch.
She stiffened, her muscles locking.
Aiden was touching her again.
A fingertip caressed her lower back. Traced the tattoo there. The butterfly with the rainbow-colored wings…and a body fashioned out of a pink ribbon. A pink cancer ribbon.
She shivered as his hand fell away, leaving a tingling in her flesh. As if a phantom finger still stroked her skin.
“She loved butterflies,” she said, not lowering her sweatshirt yet. Not when she could feel his gaze still on her.
“Yes, she did,” Aiden rasped. “Why this quote?” He gently drew a path along the right loo
p of the ribbon.
“We are the music makers, and we are the dreamers of dreams.” She smiled, joy tinged with sadness pulsing with every heartbeat. “It’s from Charlie and the Chocolate Factory, your mom’s favorite book. I would read Charlie to her in the middle of the night when she couldn’t sleep.” When the pain had been too bad for her to sleep. Aiden had visited the house often after his mom became sick, but most times in the middle of the night, it was her and Caroline. Because Frank had been God knew where. “That was one of her favorite lines. Mine, too.”
The quiet between them deepened, and after a moment, she tugged down her shirt and turned around. An awkwardness that hadn’t been there all day crept in.
“She used to read it to me when I was a kid.” A smile ghosted across his mouth before it disappeared. “It seems I’m the one who needs to apologize,” he murmured, rising and picking up her tray.
She stared after him as he left the room, his cryptic words echoing in her head.
Chapter Nine
“So what do you think?” Aiden asked, striding through his office door, Lucas behind him.
His friend dropped into the visitor’s armchair in front of Aiden’s desk and templed his fingers underneath his chin. “Danvers is going to play hardball because of his pride and nostalgia. Up until a year ago, he believed he would be passing his company down to his son, not selling it to a competitor. He needs to feel in control, and we can afford to give him that. At least for a little while.”
Aiden lowered into the seat behind his desk and cocked his head to the side, grinning.
“What?” Lucas grunted.
“Nothing.” He held out his hands, palms up. “It’s just when I start to believe I should place my call to the pope on hold, Sydney once again goes and shows me why she should be canonized. The woman is clearly a miracle worker. And a saint.”
“Shut up.”
Aiden loosed a bark of laughter. “The Lucas Oliver from a year ago would’ve gone in for the kill as soon as he smelled emotional blood in the water. But A.S. Lucas—After Sydney Lucas—is considerate to an old man’s feelings.” He gave a slow clap. “I’m impressed.”