TEN DAYS

by Jenna Mills

  Too wired to call it a night, I made my way downstairs. For a glass of water, I told myself, but found myself in the library instead. For something to read, I reasoned.

  Except I didn't reach for the artfully-arranged magazines on the cocktail table. I slipped deeper into the room, toward the leather-bound books lining the shelves.

  But I didn't reach for those either.

  Around me the stillness throbbed, as thick and heavy as the swirl from the endless parade of champagne glasses that had been placed in my hands at the book signing. Without thinking, I went down on a knee and reached for a cabinet door. I wanted to see inside. To paint a sympathetic picture of Aidan, I needed to find those little pieces that humanized him, that he kept tucked away—

  "Looking for something?"

  Low and hypnotic, the voice stopped me cold. A second. It couldn't have been more than that, a second that I hung there, my hand to the knob and my heart racing, before I made my mouth curve as I rose and turned to face him.

  "Aidan," I said with practiced indifference. "I didn't know you were back."

  "I've been waiting for you."

  Words. That's all they were. I knew that. And they weren't even all that unusual, given my assignment. Of course he'd be waiting for me.

  And yet, the sight of him watching me from the shadows of the arched doorway, the sound of his voice against the quiet of the night, sent something dark and uncomfortable thrumming through me. Awareness maybe. Caution.

  A thrill.

  "Why?" I asked. It was almost midnight. He'd been the star attraction all evening, something I already knew he detested.

  I'd expected him to stay in his office, maybe. His bedroom. Some place private, away from me and my questions. My camera—

  "Because you're a guest in my home."

  It was the perfect shot, the way he lounged there against the side of the arch, his tux jacket gone, leaving only the vest against his shirt, a third button now unfastened, a glass in his hands...

  But I'd left my phone upstairs.

  "Did you forget which room was yours?" he asked, pushing from the arch to walk deeper into the study.

  It was instinct that told me to step back.

  It was the bookcase that made doing so impossible.

  "No," I said instead. "Wasn't tired."

  A faint half smile curved his mouth. "Then maybe you forgot what I said about closed doors?"

  He knew. That was the first thing that fired through me.

  Not just about the cabinet I'd been about to open, but upstairs. The doors.

  He knew.

  "What were you looking for?" he asked, opening a small door in the side table and pulling out a bottle of scotch. "Me? My room?"

  Him.

  His room.

  "Or maybe," he said, pouring a splash of amber into his glass, "it was all those skeletons you've read about?"

  I watched him lift the drink to his mouth. "Are you always so suspicious?" I cringed the second the words left my mouth. Yes. He was a horror writer. Suspicion was his stock and trade. "I was only curious—"

  He laughed. "That's why you're here."

  "Yes."

  "Then that's something we have in common," he said, pouring a second glass. "Curiosity—wanting to know what's going on when I'm not around." He lifted his eyes dead straight to mine. "A man in my position learns you can never be too careful."

  And yet he'd invited me into his home...

  "...did you know that my house was broken into four years ago?" he asked. "My office vandalized?"

  I was standing so still, it shouldn't have been possible to go even more still.

  But I did.

  "That's why I have cameras now," he said, glancing toward the ceiling, where a red light glowed. A light I had not noticed before. "Nothing happens here that I don't know about."

  Of course.

  Of course.

  It made sense.

  And yet, I'd never considered the possibility, nor had Uncle Nathan said a word.

  "Is there one in my room?" The question shot out before I realized it was there.

  The image formed just as quickly.

  Of me in my room, naked.

  Of him, watching.

  He stepped closer. "You've been reading too many books," he added, lifting the second glass toward me.

  No more than two feet separated us. I could easily have taken the glass.

  I didn't.

  "No," he finally said, and a single corner of his mouth curved. "There's no camera in your room."

  The breath rushed straight out of me.

  "Don't be afraid," he added, gesturing with the glass. "It's a good way to say goodnight."

  I should have told him I'd had enough to drink. That I was tired and really wanted to go to bed. That it had been a long day. But none of those words formed. The thoughts barely registered. There was only him, and me, and the scotch he offered, and before I could fully process what I was doing or who we even were—that he was Aidan Cross-my uncle's client, the boy I'd watched shoot hoops through an upstairs window all those crazy, blurry years ago—I was stepping closer and taking the glass.

  Hands. They're such a simple thing. Random. Basic.

  Except they aren't.

  Not when you really look, when you notice fingers—and scars.

  Not when flesh brushes flesh.

  And warmth slips from body to body.

  "You should smile more."

  Again, only words, but that low thrum inside me, they sent it thrumming even harder, and from one shallow breath to the next, I knew. I knew what the pulsing was. It was awareness. And caution.

  And thrill.

  All three, wound so tightly together.

  Deliberately, I looked up from the swirl of the amber to him, the swirl of his own eyes, so heavy-lidded now. "I smile when there's reason to."

  He seemed to consider that. "You did a lot when you were a little girl. Did you have more reasons then?"

  He was a man who noted everything, and forgot nothing. "I enjoyed visiting my uncle."

  "Everyone likes to escape."

  I lifted the glass to my mouth, and sipped. "He had a great house."

  "And he wasn't your mother."

  My throat burned.

  Because of the scotch, I told myself.

  That was all.

  Not because of what he said...knew.

  "What about now?" he asked, settling down into a leather club chair that looked like it had been tailor-made for the darkly paneled room—and for him. He draped one leg draped over the curved arm of the chair, the other bent in front of him. "What makes you smile now?"

  My mouth tried to curve—I wouldn't let it. "Is that why you waited up for me?" I asked instead. "To find out what makes me smile?"

  I'm not sure what I was expecting, but it wasn't for him to laugh. "Would you believe me if I said yes?"

  I couldn't help it. This time I was the one who laughed. "Not for a second."

  For a long moment he just watched me. Then, slowly, he lifted his glass, and sipped.

  "Sit," he said motioning first toward the rich leather sofa, then my stilettos. "You don't need those anymore."

  Information, I reminded myself. That's why I was here. To get a look into his life. Unguarded. Uncensored.

  Midnight, barefoot, with a snifter of scotch—it was a good way to start.

  "Much better," he said after I kicked off the shoes and settled against the thick cushions. Then: "Nine hours." And with the words, he slid something from his pocket. "I told you they wouldn't wait long."

  My heart gave a quick little thud. I don't know if it was the dry amusement to his voice, or the way he was looking at me, the gleam in his eyes as he handed me his phone, but instinctively I looked down at the screen, and everything stilled. There I was, in the moonlight—and his arms. His face was tilted down to me, mine up to him. And his hands, I hadn't realized. I hadn't realized how they'd splayed against my back, holding me like that,
so possessively.

  The rush was automatic, a vague, unexpected whisper deep, deep inside. My first night in New Orleans, my first public appearance with Aidan, and already I was being cast as his new lover—and as I read further, warned to stay away.

  "Mystery man and his mystery woman?" I couldn't help it. I laughed. "Kinda catchy."

  He still leaned toward me, close enough that the warmth of his body slipped against mine. "But lazy," he said.

  "Not to mention inaccurate."

  His eyes met mine. "You think anyone cares about what's real or true? As long as it's a good story?"

  There was no denying he had a point. "Telling stories has worked out pretty good for you so far, hasn't it?"

  "I've never pretended to tell the truth."

  "Can I quote you on that?"

  "Can I stop you?"

  My smile was slow, knowing. "Are you really going to tell me anything you don't want me to share?"

  "Depends upon how subtle you are," he said quietly, and then he had his phone back in his hands and he was leaning back in his chair, lifting his glass for a long deliberate sip. "But you'll have to be better than you were tonight—I saw you."

  "Saw me?"

  "With Sloan."

  I stilled. Because I knew. I knew everything had just changed. And I knew there was nothing casual about our nightcap. It was methodical, planned. He'd gotten me comfortable and relaxed, before casting his line and going for the kill.

  Once you're in his world, you're in his story.....

  "What did he tell you?" he asked quietly. "That he's a friend?"

  I thought about lying. I thought about a lot of things. About playing games and evasive tactics, about trust—and consequences.

  In the end, the truth seemed a better option. "No."

  "Then what?"

  I toyed with my glass—instinct told me not to tell him everything. "He was curious about me and why I was with you."

  "And what did you tell him?"

  The curve of my mouth was slow, deliberate. "Nothing."

  Aidan's eyes darkened. "There. You smiled."

  The rush was automatic, a blast of heat from the inside out.

  I was going to have to be more careful around him.

  "He doesn't like you," I said.

  "No, he doesn't."

  "Why?"

  The shadow fell, despite the shadows already there. "Because he loved my wife."

  Silence kept whispering. Stillness kept pulsing. And Aidan, he stayed where he was, right there in his chair with the sleek white cat, watching me watch him. I knew he was looking for some kind of reaction to his words, words that hung between us with the finality of a last breath.

  Thousands of little pieces. That's what makes up our lives. Pieces that shape us and pieces that destroy. Some fit together easily, snugly. Others never do. They're too broken. Too worn down. Some are distorted, lost. There are big pieces and little pieces, pieces that shape us and every breath we take, while others are no more than window-dressing or pops of color.

  This, I instinctively knew, was one of those pieces, the ones that shaped.

  And he'd handed it to me, of his own free will.

  Maybe I should have been excited or satisfied, patting myself on the back for a job well done, but the memory of Sloan's words echoed through me, and all I could find myself wondering was why. Why would Aidan tell me, a virtual stranger, this on our first night together?

  "This is when you ask me a follow-up question," he prompted, as I continued to study him.

  My silence made him uneasy. It was a fascinating realization, one that made no sense.

  How do you know?

  Are you sure?

  Did she love him, too?

  Those were the questions he wanted me to ask. I made note of that, as well as the importance of finding answers from someone other than him.

  "How long have you known each other?" I asked instead.

  Aidan's eyes narrowed. "Sloan? Since third grade."

  Not the answer I was expecting. "Were you friends then? When you were boys?"

  "Inseparable."

  A quick little twist went through me.

  "He was best man in my wedding."

  I worked hard to keep my expression blank. "Did he love her even then?" I asked, edging closer to the questions he wanted me to ask.

  Aidan leaned back, resting his head against the leather of the chair. The cat didn't move. "Yes. But he thought she was happy, and that was his gift to her."

  There was no missing the bitterness to his words. "He told you that?"

  Aidan laughed. "No. She did."

  My eyes widened before I could stop them, and Aidan laughed again, more softly this time. "Not what you were expecting me to say?"

  So much hit me, all that I didn't know laid out in a perfect minefield around me. Lies, secrets, truths, all masquerading as the same.

  My expression purposefully blank, I looked at Aidan sprawled so benignly in his chair, with the big white cat draped like a limp scarf along the back.

  "What's her name?" I asked.

  He reached back, running a hand along her back. "Stella."

  Watching him, I took a slow sip. "She follows you everywhere."

  "She was my wife's." The words were matter-of-fact, his eyes cool, unreadable. "So tell me how I'm doing," he drawled. "Am I giving you enough dirt for your little exposé?"

  I winced. "It's not an exposé."

  "No?" His eyes were narrow, Stella's a hypnotic green glow. "What are you calling it then?"

  "A feature article."

  "Ah." It was barely more than a breath. "Article."

  It was impossible to tell if he was resentful, cautious—or sad.

  Or maybe all three.

  "I'm not here for dirt," I found myself saying. "Only to help the public get to know you better. To give them a glimpse inside your process—your life." Rehearsed. It all sounded so rehearsed. "People today want a more intimate relationship with celebrities. With social media, they're getting never-before access—"

  Aidan rolled his glass around in his hands—he might as well have rolled his eyes. "What if I prefer to choose who I'm intimate with?"

  That stopped me.

  Intimate.

  It was my word.

  "What if I don't want to be an open book—a whore for whoever wants me?"

  My fingers tightened against the glass.

  "What if I've found it wise to keep some doors closed?" he asked. "Is that really a crime?"

  The words he chose, the images they created, sent something dark and uncomfortable humming through me. "You can close whatever doors you want to. Lock them if you need. I'm not here to force you into anything."

  Maybe not the smartest response. I wasn't even sure where the words came from. That wasn't generally how I spoke and absolutely wasn't how I planned to conduct our sessions. Professional, I reminded myself. Make him comfortable. Let him feel like he was calling the shots...

  But don't play back. Don't forget the objective—the rules.

  Leaning forward, he swung his feet to the plush rug and braced his elbows on his spread knees. "Why are you here, Kendall?"

  His voice was quieter than before, hoarser, way more dead serious. So were his eyes. They were narrow, focused...and locked directly onto mine.

  The sun. That was all I could think. It was like being blinded by the sun in the middle of the night, and the urge to look away, turn away, was strong.

  I didn't.

  "Haven't we covered that?" I asked—but clearly he didn't believe me. The realization shouldn't have caught me off guard. Truth and lies were the sea Aidan Cross navigated every day of his life.

  "I can get my list of questions, if you like—" I offered.

  "No." Still leaning forward, he kept watching me. "Anyone could ask me those. They could have been emailed. I'm talking about you. Why you're really here."

  The breath rushed out of me.

  "I know what your unc
le wants, and I know what he says is in it for me. What I don't know is how you fit in. What's in it for you, Kendall Rose? Why are you the one here?"

  Kendall Rose.

  He remembered.

  He shouldn't have.

  We'd barely spoken all those years ago.

  "Why not me?" I asked.

  A corner of his mouth lifted. "You have to want something more than just digging up dirt—"

  "I told you. This isn't about dirt."

  "Whatever. You have to want something else. There's got to be something in it for you."

  Of course there was.

  "Are you trying to get your foot in the door?" he asked. "To prove yourself? Learn something?"

  I indulged a long, slow sip of scotch, wishing there was more, a lot more, when the glass ran dry. "Maybe all of the above."

  "Whose idea?" he asked. "Nathan's—or yours?"

  The memory flashed, of the Christmas dinner several months before, when my uncle had been lamenting Aidan's upcoming book release, his declining sales, and his tarnished public image.

  "His," I lied. I had no idea why, because again, I felt a nudge of guilt the second the words slipped out. But caution warned me not to give Aidan Cross anything he could use against me.

  "I see," he said. "So tell me...where do you want to begin?"

  Dream Weaver

  Along the southwestern coast of Portugal lies the capital city of Lisbon. There, along the jagged shoes, the tides of the Atlantic Ocean work their magic. It's an awe-inspiring sight, especially for a sixteen-year-old who rarely ventured beyond the predictable confines of suburbia. But my uncle had a business trip, and he took pity on me, and that's how I found myself standing along the shore watching the moon glimmer against deep, dark waters—and again the next morning, as the water vanished. Gradually, truly breath by breath, the waves ceased rushing toward me, pulling back instead, falling away, inch by inch, to reveal a whole new world hidden beneath. Sea creatures scurries. Colorful shells peaked out from the smooth sand like Easter eggs. Broken glass glittered. Coins. Fishing line. Plastic bottles. The sun glistening against the tide pools left behind, seductive stepping stones luring me to come close, look deeper. See what else I might find. The old and the new. The beautiful—and the ugly. It was all there, laid bare by the retreating tide, a treasure trove for me to explore.