4. Rory
4
RORY
ONE WEEK LATER
“ T hese appearance categories need more definition.” I tap my pen against the contract spread across Aiden’s desk. “The way it’s written, they could classify any event as a ‘major appearance’ and expect you to be there. We should specify what qualifies—opening day ceremonies, jersey retirements, that kind of thing.”
My phone buzzes against the desk, interrupting my train of thought. Unknown number. I decline the call and turn back to the contract.
“Was that him?” Aiden asks, his voice tense.
I shake my head. “Just spam. I blocked Michael’s number.”
“Smart.” He studies me for a moment. “Everything still okay with the security detail?”
“Yeah, Marcus is great. Very professional.” I point to the contract, ready to move on. “So about these appearances—I’m thinking we cap it at six major events per season, plus maybe ten smaller commitments like autograph sessions or VIP events. And we should add specific compensation tiers for broadcast appearances versus in-person events.”
He doesn’t answer right away. When I glance up, he’s got this distant look on his face, like his mind is somewhere else entirely.
“Aiden?”
“Those numbers work,” he says, finally focusing on the papers. “And add language about reasonable notice—minimum three weeks’ advance warning for major appearances, two weeks for everything else.”
I scribble the notes, aware of him leaning closer to see what I’m writing.
“The response deadline isn’t until Friday, right?” he asks.
“Yes, why?”
He pulls out his phone. “Good. I’m calling us a car.”
I set down my pen. “What? Why?”
A subtle smile touches his lips. “It’s a surprise.”
I tell myself Aiden isn’t being romantic, he’s just being spontaneous. Or he’s bored with contracts. Or both. But as our car winds through the city streets, I can’t stop the butterflies that take flight in my stomach.
When we pull up to Pier 39, I turn to him in surprise.
“This is where we’re going?”
“I know it’s a total tourist trap,” he says, a grin spreading across his face. “But I thought we could both use a little fun.”
I take a moment to process this turn of events. Here we are in the middle of a workday, and my boss just brought me to a place where it’s all about having a good time. It doesn’t make any sense...and yet, somehow, it feels like exactly the kind of thing I need. I can’t remember the last time I did something purely because it would be fun.
“As long as I don’t get in trouble for playing hooky,” I say, giving him a challenging look.
“If you don’t tell, I won’t,” he says, and the ridiculously handsome smile he gives me makes those butterflies in my stomach burst into flight.
We step out into the afternoon air, immediately surrounded by the buzz of tourists and street performers. Fresh-baked sourdough mingles with the salt breeze, and seagulls dive between buildings, searching for abandoned french fries.
“So.” Aiden turns to me, his focus making the back of my neck heat. “We’ve got the aquarium, the carousel, about fifty shops selling overpriced hoodies, and a mob of sea lions. What sounds good?”
“We definitely need to say hi to the sea lions,” I say. “And I wouldn’t say no to a carousel ride.” I pause. “But you forgot one of the best parts of Pier 39.”
“What’s that?”
“The mini donuts.”
His eyes go wide. “Oh shit, you’re right.” He grabs my arm. “We need those first. Like, right now.”
The scent of cinnamon and sugar leads us straight to the donut stand. We watch, mesmerized, as perfect little rings of dough drop into the oil, emerge golden brown, and get tossed in cinnamon sugar. When we get our paper bag of still-warm donuts, they’re almost too hot to hold.
“These are ridiculous,” Aiden says through a mouthful of donut. A bit of sugar dusts his lip. Ugh, those lips . How can a man have such perfect lips?
We wander past shop windows, sharing donuts and pointing out the most outrageous tourist items we can find. A tie-dyed sweatshirt with a pot-smoking peace sign. A mug shaped like a cable car. Salt and pepper shakers that look like tiny fog horns.
We also pass racks of t-shirts and hoodies, most of them plastered with cheesy San Francisco logos. But one actually catches my eye—a dark blue hoodie with a subtle design of the Golden Gate Bridge embroidered in copper thread.
“Ooh. I want to try this on,” I say, pulling it off the rack.
The fabric is incredibly soft. I slip it over my head and check my reflection in the mirror. “What do you think? Is it worth—” I check the price tag and suck in a breath, showing it to Aiden.
His eyebrows shoot up, but then he tilts his head, studying me. “You do look really cute in it.”
Really cute. Did he really just say that? The words echo in my head as heat rises to my cheeks.
“Um—thanks. I’ll think about it.”
I grab the hem of the hoodie to pull it off, but as I lift it over my head, my shirt starts coming with it. The fabric keeps rising, exposing more of my stomach, and I feel a flash of panic—but then Aiden’s hands are there, holding my shirt in place while I wrestle the hoodie off.
When I emerge, my hair is probably a mess and my cheeks are definitely pink, but at least I’m not half-naked in the middle of a tourist shop.
“Thanks,” I breathe.
He’s standing so close. I can feel the warmth radiating off him, see the flecks of darker blue in his gorgeous eyes?—
“Can I help you find anything?”
We quickly pull apart at the sales associate’s voice.
“No, thanks,” I say quickly. “We’re fine.”
We spend the rest of the afternoon exploring everything Pier 39 has to offer. We visit the sea lions, laughing as we watch them lounge on their wooden platforms, barking and shoving each other around. On the carousel, we each choose a brightly colored horse, and I hold tight to the brass pole as the ride spins, feeling like a kid again as the world whirls past in a kaleidoscope of color and music. After that, we split an order of fish and chips, the paper-wrapped bundle warm and crinkly in my hands as we sit by the water listening to a street musician play Spanish guitar.
By the time Aiden pulls out his phone to call our car, I’m full of good food and wrapped in a contentment I haven’t felt in months. I tell myself it’s just the magic of playing tourist for an afternoon—the salt air, the music, the feeling of doing something completely unplanned. But I know it’s also because of him. The afternoon felt so natural, so easy, like we were just two friends spending time together.
But as we’re driving away from the pier, my phone rings. It’s Aiden’s publisher from New York, and just like that, I’m back in assistant mode.
Back to the way things are supposed to be.