TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  "Maybe you're the one who wants to drink," I suggested. "Maybe you're secretly hoping you pass out—"

  Nothing prepared me for him to lift his hand, and touch. Me. My face. A finger to my cheekbone. The lightest of strokes, a feather to flesh. "Sweet, sweet Kendall," he murmured, and it was all I could do to breathe, to stand there. "You really think two glasses of wine will make me pass out?"

  His eyes gleamed—but shadows danced there, too. The shadows that were always there, the hint of darkness, darkness that came from somewhere deeper—the darkness that always fought with the light.

  "Tsk-tsk," I play-scolded, because again, I had to. I had to break the moment—before it consumed me. "That's three questions now."

  He feigned horror, looking down at his glass. "One," he said, bringing it to his mouth. "Two." Then, a final sip, leaving nothing at the bottom. "Three."

  I swallowed. "Maybe you should be more careful with your questions," I suggested.

  Tall. Somehow he looked taller here, more alone within the walls of the forgotten, dying place. "I'll keep that in mind."

  I wanted to stay there. I wanted to stay there, in the center of the room, with him. Instead, I made myself return to my blanket, to the notes I'd been taking. My phone could capture voice, but not images—and while I could video the session, I didn't want to be confined like that. Notes were better.

  I picked up my notebook and jotted a few observations of my own—even though there was no chance of me forgetting them.

  Energetic.

  Challenging.

  Killer smile.

  Drowning.

  Dripping...sex.

  After strolling over to the duffel bag, he fished around inside. "What'd you just write?"

  "Aidan!"

  He whipped around.

  I flashed my eyes.

  He pulled his hands back in mock surrender. "That was an accident."

  "Right," I said, jotting another word.

  Controlling.

  But those were mine, my adjectives. And I wanted his.

  "I'm waiting," I said, hugging the tablet to my chest.

  "And I'm patient," he said, returning to the bag and emerging with a handful of white votives. Turning back toward me, he placed them in a row. "That's one, by the way."

  So it was. "That wouldn't have made my top five," I laughed.

  He pulled a matchbook from the pocket of his jeans—and my heart kicked, for only a beat, until I saw the Jax Brewery logo. "Then you don't know me very well yet."

  Patient.

  "Four more," I said.

  He kneeled down, and lit a single votive. "Unpredictable."

  I watched the flame, small at first, flickering, growing stronger.

  "That's a good thing for a writer," I said.

  He lit the second. "Deliberate."

  I reached for my glass, curling my hand tight.

  He brought the match to the third candle, the fourth. "Curious."

  I watched, not sure why it was so hard to look away.

  "Come here," he instructed.

  Without the wine I'd already consumed, I might have told him no. Without the rhythm moving through me, my own curiosity. They brought me next to him, kneeling, where he put the matches in my hand. "You finish."

  I looked at him, the question in my eyes but not on my lips.

  "Because I want you to," he said, and in that moment, it was enough. I pulled a match and struck it, brought a flame and leaned toward the last votive.

  "Alone."

  I froze.

  The last votive—the fifth.

  Alone—his fifth word.

  "You're going to burn yourself," he said, and then his hand was there, and he was guiding me, and together, we touched the flame to the final wick.

  "Now drink," he said, lifting his other hand to smother the match between his thumb and forefinger.

  Wordlessly I looked at our hands together, his so much larger, his fingers long, blunt-tipped, an artist's hand. And without realizing it, I found his ring finger—naked now.

  Alone.

  Leaning back, he picked up the cup I'd abandoned, there on the blanket next to the tablet I'd wisely turned face down. "Here."

  And another word came to me, a word he had not given me, one I had not realized before.

  Sad.

  I took the glass from him, but didn't drink, not at first, not as the realization slipped through me, visible now, visible for the first time through the wall he'd built around himself, the wall he'd told me he built. There was a sadness to Aidan Cross, behind the mystery, behind the enigma and the indifferent charm. There was a sadness in his eyes, his touch.

  There was a sadness that reached deeper.

  My eyes never leaving his, I brought the refilled cup to my mouth, and sipped long and slow.

  Patient. Unpredictable. Deliberate. Curious. Alone.

  Sad.

  "Your turn," he said.

  I blinked.

  "Five words," he added, his voice as rich and melodic as the wind swirling through me. "What five words best describe you?"

  A question. He made the request a question, when easily he could have made it a statement—or command.

  And my mind was blanking. I looked at him, searched, knew I needed to give him something—had to give him something—after all that he'd given me.

  "Or maybe..." The light in his eyes changed, turning to more of a glow. "You'd like me to give them to you."

  My throat went dry. "That's not a question."

  He had this crazy way about him, a way of holding himself so, so still, that made it impossible to look away. Impossible to think.

  "I'll try again then—would you like me to give you five words that describe you?" he asked. "Is that better?"

  Deep, deep inside, alarms sounded again. Alarms screamed. No. No—

  Yes.

  Yes.

  "You don't know me," I heard myself saying, but it was all so very far away, out of time and place and body, all wrapped up in the swirl between us.

  "Determined," he said, as though I had not said anything, and our hands, they were still together, even though the match was long since cold and dark. "Fearless."

  I swallowed hard. "I'm not—"

  "Bold."

  Breathe, I told myself. Just breathe.

  "Beautiful."

  I stilled.

  For a long moment, he said nothing, just watched me. Then his hand was back on my face, feather soft again, and smoothing the hair from my eyes. "...and so damn vulnerable you could break a man in two."

  And then I really couldn't breathe, because the word, that one word, shut me down.

  Vulnerable.

  I hung there, with the votives flickering in front of me, but for that moment, I couldn't see anything, anything other than him, Aidan, and the truth I'd spent my whole life working to deny.

  Vulnerable.

  "Kendall," he whispered.

  I made myself blink. I made myself look at him.

  "Your turn."

  My turn. It was. But it took a moment for his words to register, for me to pull back from the edge—and the realization that he'd read me like a book he himself had written. After only a handful of days. Four—five.

  We didn't have many more.

  "Or we can stop," he said, rocking back, "if you don't want to play anymore."

  Play.

  Anymore.

  I made myself twist toward him. I made myself grin. I made myself...play.

  A game, I reminded myself. A game, I had to remember. Sloan's words. Sloan's warning: When you're with Aidan Cross, you're in his world, whether you want to be or not.

  "Good try," I said. Random words, I knew. He could throw them at anyone. He'd probably tossed them around before, used them as needed... "But by my count, we're not even halfway to twenty." Four, I thought. I'd asked four. Maybe five.

  "As long as you're sure."

  I slipped back to my spot, my tablet. My glass—

&
nbsp; Empty.

  I refilled it, nearing the end of the second bottle.

  Aidan magically produced a third and made quick work of the cork.

  "Five words," I said again, deliberately swirling the rich red merlot. "What are five words that don't describe you?" Bringing the cup to my mouth I shot him a look. "And this time, we're sticking to you."

  "Coward," he muttered.

  I lifted a brow. "Me?" I asked. "Or is that your first word?"

  He turned and walked away from me, toward the far side, where the remains of the fireplace dominated the wall—and I reached for my tablet and with one hand, jotted an unsteady note.

  He has a way about him,

  a way of moving that's sleek yet powerful,

  graceful in a purely masculine way.

  But, glancing down, I found the words barely legible.

  "Naive."

  The abrupt change to his voice had me jerking back up. Hard. It was all I could think. His voice was harder, not hoarse like before. But...almost...angry.

  "Gullible."

  My heart kicked low and hard, but for very different reasons than before. Two words. That's all they were. But behind them, the unsaid, the unspoken, screamed so much louder.

  "Trusting."

  And for a moment, I was in the alley again, the night before and I could see him, the look in his eyes as he realized I'd lied to him. "Aidan—"

  "Forgiving."

  The tablet slipped from my fingers. He stood there, in the same room as me, but the distance widened with every second that throbbed between us.

  Then he turned toward me. "One more, right?"

  That's a question, but the playful comeback wouldn't form. "Yes."

  His shoulders rose, fell. "Innocent."

  And everything just kinda stopped. The moment froze, held, locking us there, locking me there, in the big dark room, while he stood so, so still, watching me. Watching me as if a thousand lights blared down on us, and he could see—everything. See the way I knew my eyes darkened. See my thoughts, the ones that formed, pierced, whispered, warned, even when I didn't want them to.

  Innocent.

  He didn't move, didn't even appear to breathe. "You sure you're up for this, Kendall?"

  His voice was quiet, rough, but gentle somehow, that dangerous black magic drawl, and it shattered the silence pulsing between us.

  "I'm here, aren't I?" I said.

  He kept watching me, watching as if looking for something very specific. "You're here, but for a second there, it looked like you wished you weren't. Was it my answer? My word? Did you really manage to convince yourself that I'm innocent?"

  The desire to pick up the notebook and scrawl out a few more observations fired through me, but I knew better than to give him the satisfaction of looking away. Because I knew he was testing me...trying to see if he could knock me off balance.

  Shifting, I made myself more comfortable, opening my body language—not closing it—stretching out on my side and propping my head on my hand. "Well, I suppose that would depend on what kind of innocent we're talking about," I said simply.

  The surprise on his face felt good—too good.

  So did the moment of primal appreciation.

  "I suppose it would," he conceded.

  There were so many places I could go from there—scenarios in which the word innocent applied to Aidan Cross, and scenarios in which the word most definitely did not. And my imagination began to mass produce them all.

  But I had more questions I could ask, and the room was already starting to tilt.

  Questions about Aidan's innocence would have to wait until wine was not involved.

  "That was five, by the way," I said, with an overly innocent little smile. For effect, I held my eyes wide a heartbeat longer than normal.

  His own smile was slow, challenging, what I was coming to recognize as classic Aidan Cross. "So it was." He lifted his glass and reached for the bottle from the mantle—the third—for a quick refill. "If I didn't know better, Kendall Rose, I'd think you were starting to like this."

  I watched him take five distinct sips, all shorter than the one before. "Can't say they teach this technique in J-school," I admitted, "but extra incentive always has its merit...." Finally I allowed myself to drag my notebook and pencil closer. "Of course, I'm not sure how you've going to get your own research done..."

  He didn't look concerned. "Maybe I'm killing two birds with one—or several—bottles of wine."

  On some level, I was aware of how bizarre it was, the two of us, me and Aidan Cross, hanging out in the shadows and playing a drinking game, but not wanting to ruin the moment, I shoved all that away.

  "Your turn," he said.

  I narrowed my eyes.

  "You asked for five words, and I game them to you—now drink."

  I reached for my glass and obeyed, and felt the room tilt all over again.

  "Okay," I said, fighting the hazy blur settling through me. "Number seven,"—at least I thought it was seven—"what is something you've always wanted to do, but haven't done yet?"

  He glanced down at his phone a long moment before answering, and for a broken breath, I saw something, something in his eyes that hurt in ways I didn't understand.

  "Raft the Futaleufu River in Chile."

  No, I thought immediately. No, I knew. The lie was so transparent. It was not what I saw in his eyes. A rafting trip was not the first answer that had come to him.

  With a quick glance down, I jotted a note.

  Ask him what he's always wanted to do.

  Ask him why he lied.

  Then, completely matter-of-fact, even though the room was starting to spin, I lifted my glass for a sip—a very small one.

  "Number eight," I said, noticing that he was looking down at his phone again, and that his eyes were narrow, the lines of his face tight. "Who is one person, living or dead, you'd most like to spend an hour with?"

  The votives burned in a perfect little row, casting shadows and sending off little tendrils of smoke—but the shadow that slipped over Aidan came from somewhere I could not see. He looked up and shoved his phone into the pocket of his jeans. "My wife."

  And for the second time in a matter of minutes, I stilled.

  Slipping. Inch by inch, minute by minute, the walls he erected were slipping, crumbling, baring the man on the other side, the man who worked so brutally hard to keep others from seeing him.

  His wife.

  Whom he found dead in a bathtub.

  For which there were those who blamed him.

  His wife—the one person he wanted to spend one last hour with.

  The spinning increased, not the room, but this time inside me, a violent rush I could not slow down.

  And for a cruel heartbeat, the urge to go to him, to reach for him and touch him, to—

  "And that was eleven, by the way."

  I blinked. "Eleven?"

  "And that was twelve," he countered. "Questions, but I'll cut you some slack on that one."

  Everything was feeling so heavy, relaxed, tempting me to lower my head and close my eyes.

  Two glasses? Three?

  I wasn't sure.

  But darkness seeped from all directions, the window and the door, the corners of the room and the empty fireplace, the man across from me—

  Fighting the swirl, I pulled myself upright and took another microscopic sip.

  Aidan laughed. "Apparently all those awards you won weren't for knowing how to pace yourself."

  I shot him a shut-up look. Then, realizing I had to do something, had to move, I picked up my phone, switched it to camera, and stood as I angled the view finder toward him.

  "Stay exactly like that," I said, framing the shot, man and shadow and fireplace.

  The planes of his face hardened as I captured several quick shots. "Now slide down against the wall," I instructed.

  "I thought we were answering questions."

  "We are." I picked up one of the votives. "Now
sit."

  This time he obeyed, sliding down along the faded caramel wall and bending his legs in front of him.

  "Perfect." I placed the candle close, changing the lighting against his face. "I want to—" I started, but stopped the second I realized what I was about to say.

  "Want to what?"

  Our eyes met. Awareness flared.

  Remember.

  I wanted to remember him there, like that, the man visible through the crumbling wall, long after I returned to Colorado and moved on to whatever came next.

  Very purposefully, I glanced at his cup. "That was a question," I pointed out.

  He drank, and I lied. "I want pictures for the article, candid, casual—and a mystery writer in an abandoned mansion is as perfect as it gets."

  He took another sip, longer—slower.

  "Does that make you uncomfortable?" I asked. "Me taking pictures of you?"

  "No."

  I went down on a knee, changing my angle and trying not to topple over. "A lot of people die in your books," I said, trying to remember all that I still needed to ask. "Why so much death?"

  He handed me his glass. "Because death is real. It happens everyday. Why pretend otherwise?"

  I drank while he shifted, retrieving his phone once again.

  "If you could have or achieve anything," I made myself press forward, "what would you want most?"

  Between us, that one votive flickered. "I try not to."

  His voice was quiet again, those hard edges blunted to near nothingness. "Aren't you the one who said everyone wants something?" I reminded.

  The light of the candle glowed in his eyes. "Yes." And then he was doing it, what I'd wanted to do, what I'd stopped myself from doing. He was reaching for me, and touching. Both his hands. To my face. Soft. So, so soft.

  And everywhere he touched, I burned.

  And cried.

  And wanted.

  "Aidan—"

  "Everyone wants," he said, before I could finish. "That's how it begins."

  My throat tightened. "How what begins?"

  Heat. So much heat from his body...into mine. "I think you know."

  My heart kicked hard—but then it was over, the moment of whatever it was, and Aidan was pulling back and standing, reaching for the bottle from the mantle for a refill. "That was two."

  Dreamlike, I took the glass, and drank.

  "What are you afraid of?" I asked, even though I'd long since lost track of how many questions I had left. He would know, though. I knew that. Aidan would know.