First-Time Caller

Chapter 18

I wake up face down on my couch with a horrendously dry mouth and a headache the size of a small European nation. There’s a blanket tucked around my shoulders and socks on my feet and I applaud my drunken self for having enough forethought to get comfortable before passing out in the living room.

Last night comes back to me in flashes. Sitting alone at the restaurant. The woman and her soup. Aiden jogging down the sidewalk, bathed in yellow from the streetlights. A tiny bar with a sticky floor and a jukebox in the corner. Skee-Ball. My arms wrapped around Aiden’s neck. His smile tugging, working across his face in increments. A broad palm squeezing against my bare thigh.

I blink open my eyes, startled. The pillow beneath me groans and shifts. I shriek, lose my balance, and tumble to the floor.

Aiden’s face appears over the side of the couch, his hair deliciously mussed and his eyes squinting. There’s a line on his cheek from where his face was pressed up against my couch cushions and we stare at each other in bleary confusion.

“Lucie?” he asks, scrubbing roughly at the back of his head. His hair sticks up even more and he glances down at his legs, still tangled in the blanket that’s a noose around my waist. He blinks slowly. “You okay?”

Okay as I can be after waking up spread across the man who is supposed to be helping me find my one true love.

“M’fine,” I squeak, trying to untangle myself from the blanket. I don’t remember the part of the evening where I decided to use Aiden as a pillow.

Aiden squints and then blinks some more. He’s unfairly adorable when he’s sleepy.

“You asked me to stay,” he explains, his voice rougher than usual. His hand reaches out and he attempts to help me undo the knot of fleece around my middle. Did I try to strap myself to Aiden in my sleep? Why am I so tangled? God. “And then you manhandled me to the couch. You’re . . . scary strong.”

Embarrassment floods my body, making me prickly and hot. I’m mortified. Whatever is worse than mortified. I know I’m an affectionate drunk. Grayson calls me a cuddle monster . I think it’s my body trying to make up for the lack of touch I secretly crave. But it’s never been something I’ve had a problem with until I . . . until I latched myself like a barnacle to Aiden, of all people.

I finally get the blanket out from around me and toss the whole thing in his lap, retreating to the other side of the living room.

I need space. I also need a highly detailed report on what happened last night. What else did I do? What else did I say? I only have fleeting, fuzzy thoughts. A slow dance in the dark. My hands in his hair. An idling curiosity of what his mouth tastes like. My body pressing his down on the couch. My mouth against the hollow of his throat, whispering, Stay, please, you’re a good pillow .

His hands in my hair, his voice a low rumble. Okay.

“Did I kiss you?” I blurt out. I have a hazy memory of my face close to his, our noses brushing together. I remember wanting to kiss him and then . . . nothing. I don’t remember anything else.

Aiden continues to blink blearily at me, sleep-rumpled and confused. I don’t think I’ve ever seen him in a T-shirt before and I’m distracted by the curve of his shoulder through the thin white material. He rubs his palm against the gold chain around his neck and the muscles in his arms flex and release.

“What?” he asks.

“Did I kiss you?” I ask again, slower this time. Maybe if I pretend to be calm, I’ll start to feel it. Fake it till you make it.

The ghost of a smile flirts with his mouth. I want to fling a pillow at his head.

“No.” He collapses against the back of my couch, his knees tipped wide. One arm stretches to the side while he yawns and I’m pretty sure I make a distressed sound. All that skin . All those muscles . Whatever fortitude I usually rely on not to notice these things is nowhere to be found. “Good to know you’ve been thinking about it, though,” he says, his hand settling at the back of his neck.

“Aiden,” I admonish. What for, I don’t know. Because he’s right. I have thought about it.

Occasionally. Once or twice.

Seven times, tops.

“Lucie,” he says back, a laugh hidden behind his eyes.

“Don’t flirt with me,” I tell him.

Whatever guards Aiden usually holds around himself are softened in the early morning light spilling through the stained-glass windows at the front of my house. He watches me in amusement. “I’ve been flirting with you.”

“Since when?”

“Since I made a vague innuendo about oral surgery, give or take a couple of hours.”

“Oh,” I say. Then, “Really?”

He nods, another wide yawn pressed against the back of his hand. His body goes tense against my couch and then relaxes. I can’t believe I’m staring at Aiden. On my couch. “You’ve been flirting back,” he says.

My forehead creases. “Have I?”

He nods. I think of the light, glowy feeling I get every time I slip into the booth. How I always seem to be looking for him. The thrill I get every time I tease him about his unofficial uniform of sweatshirts and dark denim, or his Post-it Notes, or his horrific taste in music. He played Hoobastank twice . I refuse to believe that was a mistake.

I guess I have been flirting with him.

“Should we—should we stop?”

He stares at me, his face unreadable. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “We probably should.”

“Because we’re not compatible,” I explain without prompting. “Because I’m looking for a relationship and you’re—”

“Not relationship material,” he finishes gruffly. It seems like Aiden is more fundamentally opposed to investing in a relationship than being relationship material , but fine. He’s nursing old wounds. I can’t judge him for that.

He scrubs at his face. “It’s just a crush. Because we’re spending so much time together.” He drops his hands to his lap. “It’ll fade.”

“Yeah,” I agree, ignoring the flush of disappointment making my cheeks hot. I look down at my feet. “Yeah,” I say again.

“I’ll stop if you stop.”

I scoff. “That’s not how this works.”

One dark eyebrow rises on his forehead. He looks like a jungle cat. Some other massive predator. “It’s exactly how this works. You stop twisting your hair back in the booth and I—”

“Twisting my hair ?” I interrupt. “You mean braiding it?”

He nods. “Yeah. Stop braiding your hair in the booth and I’ll stop flirting with you.”

“Aiden, that’s not—” I take a second to collect myself. “That’s not flirting. That’s—I’m just pulling my hair back.”

His hand flexes on my couch cushion. “Stop braiding your hair in the booth and I’ll stop flirting with you,” he says again, a hint of demand in his voice. I swallow and shift.

A fragment of a conversation floats back to me.

You’re bossy.

I certainly can be.

My chest feels tight. I’m aware of every place on my body that this dress doesn’t cover. Ankles, knees, thighs. I’m sure I look like a raccoon that’s been in some sort of street fight over a pizza crust after sleeping on the couch in full makeup, but Aiden is looking at me like I’m a bag of contraband coffee shoved into a cookie tin.

“Lucie,” he starts. “I—”

“Hello, Queen of the Night,” bellows a voice from my kitchen. My eyes slip shut with a frustrated sigh. Grayson. “I’m here for the full debrief. Spare no detail!”

I need a deadlock on my back door. Maybe one of those childproof things underneath the handle so he can’t wiggle his way in. I fantasize about moving to Puerto Rico. In my head, I’m splayed out like a starfish on a lounger with a frozen drink in my hand. I turn my head and there’s a tanned body stretched out next to mine. Dark hair. Stubble. A gold chain around his neck.

I really shouldn’t have had those shots last night.

“There’s no need to yell, Dad.” Maya’s voice floats through the doorway and I resign myself to dying of embarrassment in front of my child.

“I know you’re dying to hear the juice, Maya bean. You don’t need to play it cool when it’s just us. You’re not a teenager yet. You can show enthusiasm. It won’t— whoa .”

Grayson skids to a stop in my living room, an apple from my fruit basket in his hand. His eyes ping-pong from me in my short green dress to Aiden sprawled on the couch to me again. His gaze snags on the heap of blanket on Aiden’s lap and a grin starts to climb his stupid face.

“Holy shit,” he whispers.

Maya appears around his arm. She’s wearing a pinch-front fedora and she’s got scruff drawn over her jaw with . . . mascara, I think. My mascara, probably. Her curly hair is pulled back into a severe bun beneath the hat. There’s a whip at her hip. Clearly, I forgot about cosplay day.

Grayson immediately covers her eyes like he’s just found me straddling Aiden on the couch.

“Dad.” Maya sighs. “You’re going to mess up my makeup.”

“Grayson,” I add. “Don’t be weird.”

Aiden stands, the blanket bunched in his arms, a question carved into the lines by his eyes. “Um,” he says. “Hello?”

He winces and I have to bury my amusement in my fist. At least I’m not suffering alone. Maya tugs at Grayson’s hand until she can peek over the top of his fingers. Aiden blinks at her. I watch him catalog the hat, the beard, the whip looped around her belt. A delighted smile appears on his handsome, sleepy face.

“Dr. Jones.” He nods.

She beams at him. My heart does something stupid in my chest.

“Are you my mom’s date from last night? William?” she asks. Without missing a beat, she adds, “Did you guys have a sleepover?”

“That’s not William and it sure does look like they had a sleepover, doesn’t it?” Grayson is enjoying this entirely too much. Aiden shifts on his feet, looking surprisingly comfortable despite the circumstances. I thought an inquisition from a twelve-year-old would have him breaking out in hives, but he’s just standing there taking it in. In his T-shirt with his . . . arms. His bare arms with the . . . muscles. He must have taken off his shoes last night before I forced him onto the couch because he’s wearing two mismatched socks. One is blue and the other is bright red.

It’s cute.

“Who are you, then?” Maya asks, her tact left somewhere at her father’s house, I guess.

“I’m Aiden,” he answers simply. He gives me an inscrutable look I can’t begin to decipher before he tosses the blanket on the couch and takes two steps forward. “It’s good to finally meet you. Your mom talks about you all the time.”

“I recognize your voice,” she says slowly. She tips her hat up her forehead, squinting at his face. “You’re Aiden Valentine.”

He nods. “And you’re Maya, orchestrator of grand schemes. Have you considered a future in radio?”

“I’m thinking about archaeology, actually.”

Aiden laughs. It’s warm and rough. Sleep-worn. “I can see that.”

“Yeah,” she agrees immediately, bouncing on her toes. She is two seconds away from laying out her entire ten-year plan. Her mouth opens, then snaps shut. Her eyes narrow and dart to me. With her faux scruff, she looks so much like Grayson that I have to swallow my laugh.

“Wait,” she says. “What is Aiden Valentine doing in the living room?”

“Yeah,” Grayson echoes. “Excellent question. What is Aiden Valentine doing in the living room?”

Aiden glances at me, hesitant. I shrug. Might as well lean in.

“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” I ask him.

I shuffle upstairs to change into an old sweatshirt and a pair of faded flannel pants, Aiden’s eyes lingering on them when I reappear in the kitchen with a bottle of ibuprofen extended in his direction.

“What?” I ask, watching a slow smile work its way across his face. Aiden’s smiles are almost always uneven, his bottom lip tugging sharper on the left. It’s like his face is unused to the expression, warming up to it the more he does it.

His fingertips brush against mine when he grabs the plastic bottle. I tug my hand back like I’ve been burned, folding it into the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “What?” I ask again.

“Nothing,” he says, shaking his head. He shakes two pills into his palm and tosses them back. I am transfixed by the line of his throat when he swallows. “You look comfortable. It’s cute.”

I scowl. “I’m not cute.”

“You’re very cute.”

I roll my eyes and retreat to the fridge.

You’ve been flirting too.

I guess I have.

Aiden finds a seat at the table with Maya and Grayson as I putter around the kitchen, my hangover reduced to a dull ache at the base of my skull and a desperate need for grease. I make pancakes and eggs and enough bacon to feed a small army, a pot of coffee bubbling to life. Their low voices drift around me and the parts of me that slipped out of rotation last night while I sat alone at a restaurant waiting for someone who never showed slowly knit themselves back together. Aiden started the work last night when he called my name down an empty street, and the low conversation at the kitchen table is guiding it forward. This is my home. These are my people. These are the things that matter the most.

I have all the love I need.

“He didn’t show?” Grayson asks in outrage, Aiden catching him up with what I hope is a heavily modified version of last night’s events. I lean over his shoulder to drop a plate of bacon in the middle of the table, then slide into the seat next to him.

“He didn’t show,” I confirm. “Sorry, Gray, but you’re no better at picking my dream man than I am.”

“Can I try?” Maya asks, tapping Aiden’s forearm to get him to hand her the plate with the toast. He does so without her having to verbalize the request, and something plucks once, right beneath my rib cage. “Can I pick your next date, Mom?”

I crunch on a piece of bacon and consider. “I don’t think so, kiddo.”

“What? Why not?”

“I think you’ve done enough.”

She grumbles something under her breath about stubborn and unfair . “Who, then?” Her voice is heavy sarcasm. “You?”

Grayson reaches for the jam. “I think your mother has demonstrated that she’s awful at picking dates as well.”

I sigh. “Maybe it’s a family curse. Poor judgment.”

Maya sips thoughtfully at her orange juice. “How about Aiden? He could pick your next date.”

I choke on my coffee. That’s the last thing I want. It’s just a crush does laps around my hungover-addled brain.

Aiden goes still at the other end of the table. “I don’t think I’m qualified,” he says slowly.

Maya frowns at him. “Aren’t you the host of the show?” He nods slowly. “Then you should pick the next date. That seems to make the most logical sense.”

Grayson’s eyes dart between us, interested. I want to drive my fork into his leg beneath the table. “Yeah,” he agrees. “That seems logical.”

“Maybe I don’t want to go on any more dates,” I offer. “Maybe I’m done with the show.”

The table rattles. Aiden winces. “Sorry. I had a . . . cough.” I stare blankly at him. He belatedly raises his fist and forces a cough into it. Somewhere to my left, Grayson makes a wheezing sound. Aiden lowers his hand and picks his fork up again. “Are you done with the show?”

I don’t want to be. I’d like for one date to work out, at least. But I don’t like the idea of Aiden organizing it. The thought makes me slightly nauseous, especially since I woke up with my face in the middle of his T-shirt. He probably still has my nose imprinted on his sternum.

“No.” I sigh. “I’m not done with the show. I wouldn’t want to disappoint Mr. Tire.”

Aiden gives me one slow blink. He stabs at a piece of pancake with more force than is strictly necessary. “I can pick your next date.”

My stomach twists. “You don’t have to do that. I’m sure I can find one person in the greater Baltimore area who isn’t a—”

“Dillweed?” he offers.

I push my fork around my plate. “Yeah. A dillweed. I think I can find someone with, uh, non-dillweed qualities.”

“You don’t think I can do it?”

I don’t know why he sounds so offended.

“I think you can do it. It’s not American Gladiators , Aiden. Finding me a date shouldn’t be that difficult.”

Not that my current track record would suggest otherwise.

“Fine. I’m going to pick your next date.” He says it like a threat, his jaw tight and eyes flashing. Another piece of pancake bites the dust. “And I’d kick ass at American Gladiators . For the record.”

I’ve seen his arms. I’m sure he could.

“Noted,” I reply, unclear what we’re arguing about.

Grayson claps his hands together with a crack. “It’s settled, then. Lucie’s Highway to Happiness—”

“Road to Love,” I correct wearily.

“—continues chugging along.” He ruffles my hair. “I’m so proud of you, my Little Engine That Could.”

“Great.” Aiden’s teeth snap around a piece of bacon, his elbow resting on the table. His body is a lazy curve, slouched in the early morning light.

“Great,” I fire back, annoyed for some reason. Maya and Grayson look entirely too pleased with themselves. “Shouldn’t you two be off to the cosplay thing?”

“Oh shit.” Grayson pushes back from the table and leans across the island for Maya’s discarded hat. “Let’s go, Maya bean. I’m sure you have a crystal skull to save.”

“ Crystal Skull is the worst one,” she moans. She pats the top of my head as she edges past. “Bye, Mom.” She tosses a shy wave in Aiden’s direction. “Bye, Aiden Valentine.”

He smiles, amused. His weird flare of obstinate tension has disappeared. Now he just looks tired. I remember him saying he’s not a morning person.

He waves at Maya. “Catch you later, Indy.”

She grins and hops out the door. Grayson disappears behind her. The kitchen settles into silence.

“I should head out,” Aiden says slowly, staring at the edge of his plate. I was fine when we woke up, but all of last night’s poor decision-making is catching up with me in flashes of disjointed, hazy memories. I remember begging him to dance to “Thong Song.” Wrapping my body around his at the Skee-Ball ramp. Kicking his sides with my heels while he gave me a piggyback home.

I cringe.

I decide to bury everything in the back of my mind to deal with another time and push back my seat. Aiden does too, stacking some of the dirty dishes and walking them to the sink.

“Sorry for, uh, manhandling you,” I say quietly while he rinses syrup off the cutlery and slots it neatly into the dishwasher. I notice he puts the forks prong-side up, the way god intended. My unfortunate crush gains momentum. “And thanks for keeping me company last night.”

“You don’t need to thank me,” he says. He closes the dishwasher and dries his hands on the towel. The one with a whisk that says WHIP IT REAL GOOD . “You don’t need to apologize either.”

“For the manhandling?”

That half smile again. “I like a woman who can toss me around.”

I bite the inside of my cheek against my answering grin. “I thought we talked about the flirting thing.”

“Yeah, yeah, I know.” He folds my dish towel into a neat rectangle, then drapes it over the handle of my dishwasher. “I’ll be on my best behavior from here on out.”

We stare at each other across the length of the kitchen. A hazy memory of last night drifts across my mind. Aiden doing up the buttons of my jacket, his knuckles brushing against the curve of my breast through the heavy material. A look of naked hunger on his face, his lips parted.

I don’t think I want him on his best behavior.

Aiden drums his hands against the chair and I snap out of it. “I’ll see you at the station on Monday,” he says, and I like to think I’m not imagining the reluctance in his voice. “I’ll work on finding you that date.”

I nod. This is the plan. This has always been the plan. There’s no reason to be disappointed, but I can’t help but feel like I’m letting something slip out of my grip. I got a taste of the real Aiden last night, and now I want more.

But I can’t. I shouldn’t.

“Yeah,” I say, trying to swallow around the sudden weight in the middle of my throat. “Of course. I’ll be there.”

“All right.” He doesn’t move. “I’ll see you then.”

I nod again. It’s a wonder my head doesn’t roll right off my shoulders. “Yeah.”

“On Monday.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“Bye.” He slips both hands over his hair.

“See ya.”

He stands on the other side of my kitchen table and doesn’t move an inch. He watches me carefully, brows furrowed, face in stern concentration. His hand squeezes at the back of his neck, the same way he does at the station when he’s trying to work through a problem. He blows out a breath and steps backward, the thread looped between us pulled tight.

“I’m leaving now.”

“I’ve heard rumors about that,” I say lightly, crossing my arms over my chest.

He cracks a smile. His whole face changes when he smiles. All those hard lines smooth out and he softens into something approachable. He drifts from my kitchen to my living room while sneaking looks at me out of the corner of his eye, and I watch him move around in my space.

“Thanks for breakfast,” he says while he’s pulling on his boots.

“No problem.”

“I’ll—I’ll see you Monday,” he says again.

“Get out of my house,” I reply with a laugh while he grabs his coat.

He rolls his eyes at me before he disappears out the front door, and as it snicks shut behind him, I collapse in my chair. I press two fingers to the edge of my smile, my cheeks straining under the pressure of it.

The forgotten Heartstrings phone sitting in the middle of the table buzzes with a text.

AIDEN: Bye.

I laugh out loud.

AIDEN VALENTINE: Welcome back to Heartstrings , Baltimore. We missed you over the weekend.

LUCIE STONE: We really did. You guys make life more interesting.

LUCIE STONE: What did you get up to this weekend, Aiden?

AIDEN VALENTINE: Oh, you know. A little bit of this, a little bit of that.

LUCIE STONE: Anything fun?

AIDEN VALENTINE: I had lots of fun. What about you?

LUCIE STONE: You know what? I had some fun too.