16. Aiden
AIDEN
No doubt about it—Vegas had opened a door to something Aiden didn’t know existed.
If anyone had asked him about Isla before that trip, he would have smiled—probably fondly—and said something nostalgic about the girl he’d known since childhood. Brilliant actress, funny, warmhearted.
But now?
Now I’m sitting at a wine tasting in a coffee shop, wishing I was drinking wine instead of coffee, and every time Tomas touches her, I feel sick.
Aiden swallowed more of his cappuccino and stared at the scene unfolding by one of the tasting stations.
Tomas and Isla stood there, chatting with the shop owner, laughing like they were already in on some private joke.
Tomas had eagerly assumed his job as boyfriend, his hand a constant presence at the small of Isla’s back—territorial, possessive.
Aiden curled his fingers around his coffee cup, knuckles stiff. He forced himself to sip and ignore the irrational irritation gnawing at his ribs. Tomas had every right to touch her.
Yet Aiden wanted to break his fingers.
Tomas even knew how to chum it up with Kyle, who had fallen easily into the role of humorous third wheel when he’d butchered the pronunciations of every wine they tasted.
“Need something a bit stronger than wine?” a deep voice asked from beside him with a chuckle. Aiden glanced over and saw an older gentleman, broad shouldered and wearing a plaid shirt and bow tie ...and a cowboy hat. He flashed a bright smile framed by a St. Nicholas-like beard.
Aiden returned a polite smile. “Something like that.”
The man winked. “I hear you. I’m staying away from the stuff, too. If I’d started drinking wine at five, I would have been asleep by six.” He extended a hand. “Name’s John.”
“Aiden,” he said, shaking John’s hand. “Are you a local?”
“Yup. Lived here all my life.” A proud look filled his eyes. “Wouldn’t want to call any other place home. We might be a humble town, but we’ve made it through a lot of adversity.”
“Ah, so you’re a native Parisian then?”
John barked a laugh, then cupped his hands around his mouth. “Hey Kathy, this fellow wants to know if we’re Parisians,” he called to the woman speaking to Tomas and Isla.
Kathy rolled her eyes and grinned. “You asked the wrong man,” she said to Aiden with a shake of her head.
John set his hand on Aiden’s shoulder. “We’re Parisites.” He winked again.
Isla’s lovely laugh trickled through the shop. “That’s clever.”
“So how do you fit in with this group?” John asked, lowering his hand from Aiden’s shoulder. “You seem to be mostly observing.”
“That’s apt. My role is more. . .accessory,” Aiden said as he set his mug down on a table.
“You’re the money, eh?” John gave him a thoughtful look. “From England?”
Aiden nodded and shifted with discomfort.
“You’re a long way from home. What do you think of our small town?”
“It’s charming,” Aiden said in a practiced tone.
“Bet you say that everywhere you go.” John chuckled.
“Our town has its problems, just like every other town. Young folks leave and don’t come back.
Not much to do here compared to the bigger cities.
But it’s a good place to settle down with someone you love and have a couple of kids.
Grow old in a place where people actually know you—there’s a value in that young people don’t always recognize.
What’s home to you, Aiden? What does it look like?
Smell like? Sound like? More importantly, who’s there waiting for you?
If you can answer those questions, you’re pretty fortunate. ”
Of course he’d get stuck talking to the most gregarious person here. So un-British to pepper a complete stranger with so many invasive questions. Aiden restrained a sigh. “So, what are the answers to those questions for you, John?”
John smiled. “Home is that lovely lady over there.” He pointed at a woman with short gray hair serving wine at a tasting station. “Been married to her for forty-three years.”
“And the rest?” Aiden arched a brow.
John inhaled an exaggerated breath and released it.
“Home smells like rolls from Ideal Bread baking on the square in the morning, Speas Vinegar in the air. Crepe myrtle blooms in the summer, and the sounds of kids running through the sprinklers.” He gave Aiden a wink that he was increasingly sure must be one of his trademarks.
“I don’t ask questions I don’t already know the answers to, sonny. ”
As John moved away, Aiden settled into the background again, vaguely drained by the interaction. His gaze flicked toward Tomas and Isla once more. Tomas had slipped his arms comfortably around Isla’s waist, tugging her back against him.
Kyle was laughing with another local. The film crew moved around, capturing their conversations, while other people here for the wine festival sipped on their drinks in various states of attire—some dressed to the nines, some in jeans.
No wonder John had taken one look at him and realized he wasn’t at home.
Not here. Maybe not anywhere. He was a man who traveled the world but had nothing real of his own.
No crepe myrtle summers, no scent of fresh bread on the square, no one waiting for him at the end of the day.
Just the cold sterility of offices, boardrooms, and polished steel elevators.
And really...I wouldn’t be here if I had a choice.
He’d toiled in front of a laptop all night, trying to catch up with all the work that demanded his attention. Tonight would likely be similar.
Yet here he was, standing around and waiting for the appropriate moment to tell Isla they were mistakenly husband and wife.
But he’d spent the entire day waiting for the opportunity to present itself, and it still hadn’t appeared.
He checked his watch. Nearly nine thirty. Sidling up beside Davy, he asked in a low voice, “Do you have any idea when we’ll be done?”
Davy frowned and then pulled out an iPad. “Yeah, I think we’ll probably wrap here in a few minutes. We have more than enough footage for the day. I’m not sure what Boyd is waiting for.”
“All right, well, I’ll be outside getting some air over in the square when you’re ready to head back.”
He left the coffee shop, then headed across the street toward the main square of the town, where bright string lights lit the trees.
In the center was a white fountain, which a plaque stated was a gift from a J.
J. Culbertson. The fact of the matter was, it really was charming, and the cool evening air and sparkling lights were a refreshing break from the noise and crowds of the people on the wine crawl.
A few lovers strolled hand in hand near the fountain, and Aiden stopped under the shade of a tree and leaned against the trunk, arms crossed.
He couldn’t remember the last time he’d been out on a date like the people around him were.
With Lola, every date had been about status—the fanciest, most exclusive restaurants, the hottest tickets to the best shows, and quick getaways to expensive resorts.
But picking a girl up, a stroll through a quaint town, taking her back to her home, perhaps hoping for a kiss...the days of those simpler relationships were far, far behind him. He’d chosen that—couldn’t blame anyone but himself—but it hadn’t always been that way.
When did life get so complicated?
He couldn’t quite understand, either, why it had bothered him so much when Isla had given him a look in the van this morning like he was Aiden the businessman . Maybe because he’d always counted on a handful of people to see him as he really was and she was one of them.
But more than that , her opinion mattered.
Even as children, there’d been an understanding between them as the “younger” siblings of their respective brothers. But as they grew older, too. She believed in him when others didn’t. He could be himself around her.
And now . . . there was this new, unexpected need to impress her.
Not with his job or money or anything like that.
Something else. Something more important.
Like he could be in a crowded room with her and they’d still be alone together when they made eye contact—know what the other was thinking.
Share something secret—deeper—just with one look.
“Trying to escape?” Isla said from behind him.
He glanced over his shoulder. “Did you wrap that quickly?”
She appeared to be in good spirits with a smile on her face and carried a brown paper bag in her hand.
“Ugh, not soon enough,” Isla said, bending down and tugging her heels from her feet. “And I still have to go back to the trailer—give them the mic and the camera.” She straightened, dangling her heels from the straps, looping her fingers through them.
“Not soon enough? You seemed to be having fun. You and Tomas.”
Isla rolled her eyes at him. “It’s called acting, Aiden. Maybe learn to do some of it, rather than sitting there all day, sulking and brooding and whatever the hell else you were doing.”
Sulking?
Isla held the paper bag out to him. “I got you something. Thought it might cheer you up.”
With a frown, he accepted the bag, then reached inside it to pull out a soft, navy T-shirt emblazoned with “I Love Paris.”
“You got me one of these?” He tilted his head, his lips curving despite his mood.
“To commemorate our time here in Paris.” She backed up, with a grin, toward the fountain.
“What are you doing?” Worry grew in him as she went up the stairs to the fountain, backward. He left the tree and headed toward her.
“What do you think?” She tied her long hair back, some of the pink glittering in the warm, electric light. “Soaking my feet; they’re throbbing. I work on a beach—ask me how often I wear something other than flip-flops and sandals.”
Aiden had already reached her, his alarm rising as he drew closer. Is she drunk?
“How much wine have you had to drink tonight?” he asked, gripping her arm as she stepped closer to the fountain.
“Don’t know. Six glasses? Plus, the tastings? I’m fine. Who knows?” She threw him a breezy smile. “Just a bit tipsy. Contrary to what you may believe, I am not an alcoholic. They just kept putting glasses of wine in my hands while the cameras were rolling. I was working.”
She teetered forward, and his hands shot out—one firm around her wrist, the other slipping instinctively to her waist. Her skin was warm, damp from the mist, the soft give of her body against his chest sending an electric bolt through his nerves.
She smelled like wine and something sweet—strawberries, maybe.
Aiden’s pulse kicked up. Shite.
“I don’t think that’s a good idea, Isla.” His voice was rougher than he meant it to be.
She arched a brow. “And why not?”
“It might be slippery. Marble can be slick when it’s wet.”
“By all means, feel free to join me—give me something strong and sturdy to hold on to.” She pushed past him and stepped in, holding her skirt up to keep it from getting wet.
She gasped, “Oh it’s cold!” but kept moving.
“I’m not sure the production company will want you getting the camera and microphone wet.”
She turned toward him, a sultry grin on that perfect mouth.
“Is that just your lame way of getting out of joining me? And here I thought Aiden Camden was the daredevil who liked to jump from airplanes and have adventures across the globe. Or have you been keeping that top button too tight to remember?”
He let her words roll off him. She was clearly inebriated, even if it had been several hours since she’d started tasting wines. Maybe he should have expected this, but he’d avoided drinking all night.
She started to twirl, head back, the mist of the fountain dampening her skin and making it stick to her throat and face. Her skirt was hiked up, revealing the smooth skin of her thighs, her taut belly peeking out from her crop top.
Aiden’s mouth went dry.
Beautiful, wild creature.
Near them, onlookers had pulled out their mobiles to film.
Fuck.
He was going to have to go in there after her.
With a groan, he set the bag she’d given him to the side, pulled off his shoes and socks, then rolled the cuffs of his trousers. He glared at her as he stepped in.
Bollocks. She wasn’t kidding. The water was frigid.
“Come on, you little menace.” He tugged her by the arm.
“Menace?” She gave him a breathless smile. “Didn’t you have a different nickname for me when we were younger?”
“Yes, Miss Skye.”
She stumbled, and before he could think, his hands found her. Bare skin. Soft. A breath hitched between them, a flicker of something dangerous. He should step back.
He didn’t.
And then he hated Tomas Meyer because he’d been smelling and embracing her like this all day.
Isla set her hand on his chest and grinned up at him. “Why Skye?”
He shrugged. “My favorite island.”
“Aw, Aiden, even with all that teasing and hair pulling you did? Maybe you had a heart after all.”
She smiled up at him, and for a second, she wasn’t Isla, the woman who could shatter his self-control with a glance.
She was Isla, the girl who used to race him across the lawn at his family’s estate of Littleton, who once cried on his shoulder when her father forgot her birthday. A lump tightened in his throat.
Aiden swallowed it down. “I wouldn’t go that far, Miss Skye.”
She trembled with cold. “I suppose we liked each other enough in Vegas. Even if neither of us remembers it.”
One can always count on children and drunks for the truth.
His gaze dropped, then flicked toward her lips. “Well, we’ll always have Paris...Texas, anyway.”
She laughed, then gave a shriek as her foot slid hard on the slick marble. He caught her once again, barely keeping her from falling. “Come on,” he said, then hoisted her over his shoulder. “Let’s get you out of here before you catch pneumonia.”
“What are you, Tarzan? This isn’t the way you carry me romantically out of the fountain.” She giggled, then smacked his arse. “Though the view isn’t bad.”
“Isla, you’re outrageous. And drunk. But I’ll pretend I won’t remember any of this in the morning.” He set her down on the ground and held her upright.
She arched a brow, lips pursed. “Is that what you did last time?”
Touché.
“No,” he said flatly.
He reached for both of their shoes and the T-shirt and handed them to her. “Hold these.”
Isla gave him a baffled look. “What for?”
“I need you to carry them.” He didn’t wait—just bent and scooped her into his arms like he’d done it a thousand times before. Like it wasn’t rewiring something deep inside him. Like it wasn’t the most natural thing in the world to hold her this close.
Like it isn’t exactly where I want her to be.
“I’m taking you back to your hotel room. Before you get either of us in any more trouble.”