by Lizzie Shane
“Dinner’s in the oven.” Samira gestured to the timer unnecessarily and twisted her hands. “There are frozen yogurt bars for dessert.”
“Don’t worry about us. We’ve got this,” he assured her, hitching Maddie up when she started to wriggle and adjusting her in his arms. “What time do you need to leave?”
“He should be here any minute.” She glanced toward the front door. “I texted to say I was running late and he said he was too. So that’s good.”
She didn’t sound like she thought it was good. She sounded like she was about to walk the plank.
“He’s picking you up?”
“Well, I mean, I don’t really have a car.” Samira moved around the kitchen, absently tidying up.
Aiden frowned, realizing again how restricted her life had been—and how completely oblivious to it he’d been. “You can use the SUV whenever you want. You know it’s always available to you.”
“But then if you need to take the girls anywhere you’d have all the hassle of putting the carseats in your car.” She bent to load the dishwasher—looking like a fifties fantasy in her dress and heels.
It was definitely wrong that he was getting turned on by this. He set Maddie down, starting toward her. “I can get those.”
She waved him off. “It’s already done.”
“We did Miss Sammie’s hair,” Maddie boasted as she climbed up onto her stool.
“And you did a wonderful job. Do you want to do my hair later?”
The girls giggled, but their response was interrupted by the buzzing of Samira’s phone. She snatched it off the counter, her brow pulling tight as she studied the screen. “He’s here.”
Aiden felt his brow pull into a glower. What kind of man didn’t come to the door? Texting from the driveway seemed a lot like the modern equivalent of honking with the motor running. Aiden may not have much experience with dating in the last half dozen years, but he knew that.
Samira gathered up her purse, smoothing her hair and her skirt one last time. “Well, goodnight.”
Who was this guy? Aiden barely stopped himself from demanding his name—and his background check. “Call if you need a ride home. Doesn’t matter how late.”
His worry finally seemed to relax Samira and she smiled. “He comes highly recommended by Jackie’s husband. I think my virtue is safe.”
“I’m glad to hear it. But I’ll keep my phone on me anyway.”
She smiled—soft and pretty and so damn feminine something tugged in his chest. Something he’d forgotten was there. “Good night, Aiden. Good night, Maddie. Good night, Stella. Good night, Benjamin Franklin.”
The girls called their goodnights as the oven timer went off, sending Benjamin Franklin into a barking fit and forcing Aiden to rescue the tater tots and chicken nuggets when what he really wanted to do was run to the front window and jot down the license plate number of the man picking Samira up. He heard the front door open and close softly, his ears somehow achieving bionic levels with the help of his anxiety.
Christ. If he was this nervous when Samira had a date, what was going to happen to him when his own girls started dating?
“No dating until you’re thirty, okay girls? Daddy’s heart can’t take it. Now who wants chicken nuggets?”
Two hands shot eagerly into the air, two voices calling out, “Me! Me! Me!” and Aiden focused on his girls rather than the low-level worry that hummed beneath everything he did. It was going to be a long night.
CHAPTER FOUR
“I had a really good time tonight.”
Samira blushed and kept her eyes on her lap. She smiled, but her face felt wooden. “Me too.”
A lie. Though it certainly wasn’t his fault. Brian Wilson had been nothing short of wonderful, exactly as advertised. It was Samira who hadn’t been able to relax all night.
She’d forgotten how uncomfortable she was on dates. How she was constantly searching for the right thing to say, trying to be whatever her date wanted her to be, trying to make it work—and squashing herself into whatever box she thought he might want in the process. She’d never been able to feel like she was herself on her dates—and never really felt like she knew whether she’d had fun or not until after the fact. Like an out of body experience.
They’d gone to a little Thai restaurant he knew about and the food had been spectacular. She’d been overdressed—as was immediately apparent when she climbed into the car to find him in a button-down and jeans—but he’d complimented her, trying to put her at ease.
Little did he know that wasn’t humanly possible.
He’d kept the conversation going every time it had threatened to descend into awkwardness. Brian Wilson was a talker, but not in an unpleasant way. He was smart. Interesting. If she’d been able to get out of her own head for five seconds, she might have even found him fascinating.
After dinner, he’d taken her hand as they strolled back to the car, offering her his jacket when the winter breeze kicked up—even though her coat was thicker than his and he would have been freezing without it. He’d done everything right. Said everything right.
And now, as they sat in the driveway of the Raines house, she just wanted to flee inside and never look back.
“We should do this again sometime.”
Oh no. Anything but that. “Absolutely. That’d be great. Goodnight, Brian.” She reached for the car door handle and he went for his as well.
“I’ll walk you to the door.”
“No, it’s fine,” she said hurriedly—too hurriedly and tried to cover it when a rushed, “Thanks!”
If he walked her to the door, he might try to kiss her. And she’d let him, because she was always trying to be a good date, and then she’d feel guilty for days that she’d led him on, let him believe she really liked him—which she did, he was lovely. She just hated who she was when she was with him.
Brian sank back into his seat—and if he was disappointed he hid it well. “Are you sure?”
“Absolutely. G’night!” She smiled too brightly, her cheeks aching, and somehow managed to resist the urge to slug him on the shoulder like a buddy. “Thank you!”
Samira fled up the stairs, her house key already palmed, ready for the lock, and she slipped inside quickly, shutting the door and flipping the deadbolt in a single movement. Only then did she feel the tension that had been wrapped around her spine like a corkscrew all night release.
She was officially the world’s worst dater.
She groaned and leaned back against the door, her eyes falling closed as she thumped her head back against the hard surface.
“That bad, eh?”
Her eyes snapped open, her head jerking up. “Aiden.”
The double doors to his home office had been left wide open, giving him a clear view of the front door from his desk. He sat with papers scattered around him and his laptop open, but Samira had the unmistakable feeling that he’d been waiting up for her, not unlike the way her father had once done. Benjamin Franklin had been lying at his feet, but now rose—stretching deliberately before padding over to greet her with his tail wagging sleepily as she shed her coat and hung it up.
“I didn’t see you there,” she said to the man in the office as she rubbed the dog’s ears in greeting.
“Sorry.” Aiden stood, abandoning his work. “I seem to keep surprising you.” He lifted the tumbler she hadn’t noticed in his hands. “Drink?”
She’d never been much of a drinker. Her parents had left Iran before alcohol had become illegal there, but her father had always believed that anything that clouded the intellect was to be avoided. Ideas were his religion and he didn’t like anything that muddied them.
Consequently, Samira had been a senior in college before she had her first sip of alcohol, and then only because her date had ordered a bottle of wine for them to share and she hadn’t wanted to explain to him that she didn’t drink. Always trying to make herself into the picture of the perfect girlfriend.
But Aiden didn�
��t care if she said yes or no. She wasn’t his date and all she had to consider was whether she wanted a drink—and frankly, after the endless, awkward night she’d had, the idea of unwinding with a glass of wine sounded like heaven.
“I’d love one.”
Aiden led the way into the kitchen, Benjamin Franklin padding at his heels. He didn’t bother to turn on the lights as they went, the shadows in the house somehow peaceful in their familiarity. “Red? White?” he asked when he reached the wine fridge. “There’s also twelve year old scotch.” He lifted his own nearly empty glass. “And vodka in the freezer that Scott left last time he was here.”
She was tempted to try the scotch, but knowing she was a lightweight, she kept it familiar. “Red?”
“Red it is.”
She watched him pluck a bottle from the rack and remove two stemless wine glasses and the corkscrew from the shelf. She should have felt awkward—that same breakdown of roles nervousness she’d felt last week when they were alone together—but she must have used up all her discomfort on her date tonight.
There was something oddly soothing about watching his hands—the capable movements of them as he uncorked the wine and pulled out an aerator so they didn’t have to wait for it to breathe.
“So he wasn’t The One after all?” Aiden asked without looking up as he poured.
Samira toed off her heels and perched on one of the stools at the island, making herself comfortable as Benjamin Franklin flopped onto his dog bed in the corner, evidently deciding there weren’t going to be any table scraps to catch. “He was great. I’m the one who’s a complete failure when it comes to dating.”
Aiden sent her a sideways glance. “I seriously doubt that.”
“It’s true. I am a dating train wreck.” He slid her glass across the granite toward her and she cupped her palm around it. “I’m always trying to be the perfect date—whatever that means.”
She lifted the wine, inhaling the layered bouquet. Chloe, of all people, had gotten her into drinking wine. Aiden’s wife had taught Samira all the necessary vocab words so she sounded like she knew what she was talking about—tannins and body and mouth feel. It turned out she had a good palate, once she started drinking decent wine.
Her first sip of the red slid across her senses, notes of blackberry and moss lingering on her tongue. Aiden mirrored her with his own glass.
She’d gotten in the habit of settling down for Scandal one night a week with a glass of red and using the rest of the bottle for cooking, but there was something different about drinking with someone. The house was quiet. Intimate, almost. But she wasn’t nervous, even as her awareness of Aiden’s presence prickled over her skin, lifting the hairs at the back of her neck. She almost felt…pleased?
Was that what this was? This sort of comfortable, friendly, coziness?
“You didn’t have to wait up,” she told him.
Aiden glanced over at the clock and she followed his gaze. Quarter to nine. “It’s still early for everyone except four-year-olds, and I had some work to take care of anyway.”
*
He said it like he’d actually managed to get any work done, waiting up for her like a nervous parent, watching the clock and checking his phone every three minutes for missed calls. Aiden didn’t know why he hadn’t been able to concentrate all night. She was important to the girls, but it was more than that.
She lifted her glass for another taste of the wine and he found himself watching the line of her neck, the long slim fingers on the glass.
He cleared his throat roughly. “Besides, I felt like I owed you an apology.”
Samira paused with her glass half lowered and he saw her throat work as she swallowed. “An apology?”
“I’ve been monopolizing your life. You’ve been with us for over two years and you almost never take the car on your days off. This is the first time you’ve even been on a date—”
“My not dating has nothing to do with feeling like I can’t,” she interrupted. “At least not because of you. I wasn’t kidding when I said I was terrible at it. And right after I got divorced, the last thing I wanted to do was jump right into another relationship.”
Aiden managed to keep his surprise from showing only because he had years of experience keeping a poker face in court. He hadn’t known she’d been married before. He really didn’t know her at all. She’d been Chloe’s hire. Chloe’s friend. And he was an oblivious ass.
He didn’t know what to say—something that almost never happened to him—but thankfully Samira went on.
“You know that movie, Runaway Bride?”
He frowned, unsure where she was headed with this. “With Julia Roberts?” Chloe had loved sappy romantic comedies and he’d seen more than his share—though if he was honest, he’d loved them even more than she did. She used to tease him that he was the romantic in their marriage and she just indulged his need to spoil her with romantic gestures.
“That’s who I am in relationships,” Samira said, calling him back from the memory of Chloe. “It’s who I was in my marriage too. The girl who is so busy being what she thinks her man wants that she forgets who she is. It’s exhausting, always trying to be what someone else wants you to be. Always second guessing everything. But when I’m not with anyone, I can just be me.”
“Doesn’t Julia Roberts figure out how to be herself and end up with Richard Gere in the end?“
“You have seen it.”
“I have,” he admitted. “And it seemed like they were saying it was possible to do both. Be yourself and be with someone. If Julia can learn to do it…”
Samira made a face. “That’s a romantic comedy. Real life isn’t like that. We don’t magically solve our problems in ninety minutes with the help of a cute montage.”
He snorted. “Tell that to my sister.” At her frown he realized he hadn’t told Samira the big news. “Charlotte’s getting remarried. She’s determined to star in her own romantic comedy if it’s the last thing she does.” At Samira’s slight frown he grimaced and took a drink of his wine. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that to come out quite so cynically.” To think Chloe had once called him a romantic. “I meant to tell you about the wedding last week when I first heard about it. Maddie and Stella are signed on to be flower girls—though I haven’t told them yet about the poofy princess dress bonanza. I guess part of me is waiting to see if Charlotte comes to her senses and postpones.”
“Not all rushed decisions are rash decisions,” Samira pointed out.
“No. Just most of them. Especially where Charlotte is concerned.” He grimaced. “She has a tendency to see what she wants to see. It can get her into trouble.”
Samira cocked her head. “I thought you were the baby of the family.”
“I am. Why?”
“It just seems like you’re always the one looking out for everyone.”
He shrugged. “We all look out for one another. They took care of me when we lost Chloe.” It was his standard answer, but Samira’s steady gaze told him she wasn’t buying it. She’d been there, after all. She’d seen the way he’d thrown himself into work. The way he had brushed aside concern. He grimaced. “Okay, fine. I’m not always good at accepting help.” He took another swallow of the red. “Maybe it comes from being the youngest. Always wanting to prove I could do it myself.”
Samira arched a brow. “I’m not sure that logic holds up. I was an only child and I’m terrible at accepting help too.”
“I think I pictured you with twelve younger siblings you’d always babysat for and that’s how you became so good with children.” Though he was realizing more and more that he knew nothing about the woman raising his daughters.
“You aren’t far off, but it was younger cousins, not siblings.”
“I barely know my cousins. Are you close?”
A flicker of unease passed across her face. “Not really. Not since I left St. Louis.”
Her discomfort saturated the air between them. “I’m sorry. I didn’t me
an to pry.”
“No, it’s all right,” she said in a rush. “I just… I don’t usually talk about myself.”
“I’ve noticed.” She met his wry smile with one of her own—and the tension in the air shifted as their eyes met and held.
That awareness of her as a woman that he’d been pushing to the back of his mind since he got home and saw her in that dress slammed into him again and he couldn’t look away. Her eyelashes were incredibly long and a thin accent of dark blue lined her eyes, making the near-black depth of her irises even more striking.
Aiden went still, the air seeming to thicken as something unseen moved between them. He couldn’t remember what they’d been talking about. His gaze fell helplessly to the curve of her full lower lip. The lipstick she’d worn earlier had long since worn off, but somehow the bare color, stained with wine, was all the more enticing for that. Would she taste like the wine they’d been drinking? Would her kiss be as sweetly hesitant as she seemed right now or as bold and confident as he’d seen her be when she took charge of the girls?
He realized he’d been staring too long when she coughed and averted her face, her cheeks reddening. “I should get to bed. The girls wake up early.” Her wineglass was still half full and she lifted it to take it with her. “Thanks for the wine. And the company. It was… nice.”
Nice. Right. They were nice. They weren’t heat and fascination. They were pals. She worked for him, for Chrissake.
“Very nice,” he agreed, stepping back to give her more space even though they’d been separated by the broad width of the island the entire time. “Good night, Samira.”
She looked back at him, a flick of a glance beneath her lashes that hit him below the belt and made things that should not be tightening go tight.
“Good night, Aiden.”
She bolted up the stairs before he could do something stupid like reach for her.
Thank God.