Chapter 4
I wake up the next morning to the smell of coffee. Oh, glorious scent! In the city I never wake to coffee because Geoff and I pick up Starbucks on the corner by our office after ordering on the app.
I push myself up on my palms and breathe in another scent. This one less familiar. Bacon? Does that mean...?
I climb out of bed and pull on my cozy black faux-fur robe.
I unpacked last night after my bath so my clothes wouldn’t be wrinkled.
I’d pulled them out of Geoff’s closet with the black velvet hangers still attached, so it didn’t take long to empty the suitcase.
I slide my cell phone into the robe pocket.
I’m still tying the belt around my waist when I pad into the kitchen, yawning.
Aiden is standing in front of the stove frying bacon and scrambling eggs in a skillet.
He’s wearing jeans and an ice-blue cable-knit sweater.
And it’s official. He’s even good-looking in the morning.
And he’s definitely hot. It was not some trick of the light last night or me being too tired and overcome by nostalgia for home.
Meanwhile, I’m pretty sure I’m redefining the term bed head .
I start frantically pulling my fingers through my hair.
Aiden glances at his watch. “Wow. You sleep late.”
I frown and pull out my phone. “It’s only seven,” I point out.
“I’ve been up since four.”
“Four what?” I narrow my eyes and cock my head to the side. What he’s saying makes no sense to me.
“Four o’clock, a.m.,” he clarifies. “I just came back from the orchards for breakfast.”
I rub the tip of my nose with my palm. Normally, I would make a joke about being a farmer at a time like this, but then I realize he is a farmer, and the joke is not gonna land the way I would like it to. I remain silent.
“Would you like some coffee?” he asks next.
“Would I!” My fingers emerge from the long sleeves of my robe, and I do grabby hands. “I can’t think or function or do much of anything before coffee.”
Aiden pulls a white mug from one of the cabinets and fills it with coffee from a silver carafe. Then turns and hands it to me.
I stare down at the mug as if I don’t know what the brown liquid is.
“What?” he says, nodding to the cup. “It’s coffee.”
“Black?” I don’t know what kind of coffee I’d expected, but not black.
I blink at the mug as if it’s filled with an unknown substance.
It might as well be. I don’t drink black coffee.
I drink coffee with flavors and special milk and anything else my heart desires. “Do you have any creamer? Or sugar?”
“What? You can’t drink black coffee?”
“It’s not that I can’t ,” I explain. “It’s that I don’t want to. No problem, though. I... I’ll stop by Starbucks later.” I place the mug on the countertop.
Aiden rolls his eyes.
I post a fist to my hip. “You’re thinking I’m too picky, aren’t you?”
“I didn’t say that.”
My eyes narrow. “But you’re thinking it.”
“Maybe.”
I lift my prim little nose in the air, because I will die on this hill.
“I’ll have you know that I don’t care,” I say.
“If being picky means not drinking black coffee that tastes like a foot, then picky as charged. As a species we’ve evolved beyond black coffee.
And I, for one, take full, unashamed advantage of that. ”
“Would you like some eggs and bacon?” he asks next, completely ignoring my little coffee speech.
“I don’t eat breakfast,” I admit. Fully expecting more judgment.
On cue, he rolls his eyes.
“Breakfast makes me nauseated.” I shrug. “I suppose you think it’s the most important meal of the day.” Now I roll my eyes because, in an eye roll–off, I’m gonna win.
“What’s your order?” he asks instead, surprising me.
I frown. “Order?”
He lifts his chin and contemplates me. “At Starbucks, what do you order?”
“What do you think I order?” I’m truly interested in his answer. This should be fun.
“Something complicated.”
Okay. I take pity on him. “A hazelnut latte with oat milk.”
“Oat milk!”
“And two pumps,” I add, to further scandalize him.
“Two pumps of what?”
“Hazelnut syrup. They make coffee that actually tastes good in places like Starbucks. They’ve figured it out.”
“You don’t know if my coffee tastes good. You didn’t try it.” He seems smug.
“Have you tried Starbucks?” I counter.
He shakes his head. “I’m not paying five dollars for a cup of coffee. That’s ridiculous.”
I frown because the man makes a good point.
I am unemployed at the moment. I probably shouldn’t be paying for coffee either.
Aren’t financial-advisor types always saying something like that?
Until this moment, I have chosen to ignore them.
I lift the mug again and take a tentative sip of the black coffee before squeezing my eyes shut. Glug is the approximate sound I make.
Aiden pulls a box of sugar packets from a cabinet and tosses me two. “Try it with these.”
“You couldn’t give me these when I asked?” I rip the two packets open and dump them into the mug. I turn to find a spoon. He is already holding one aloft.
“I had to give you a little bit of a hard time, Ellie Belly,” he says softly.
My mouth twists into an unwilling smile before I pluck the spoon from his fingers and begin stirring. After a couple of minutes (and two more packets of sugar), I am able to consume the coffee. Slowly. Reluctantly.
But I remain partially indignant. This is why people have jobs.
So they can afford coffee that doesn’t taste like glug.
Which reminds me. I need to get online ASAP and start connecting with my network to find a new job.
Only, I can’t do that where anyone can see me, and my priority is the festival.
I’ll have to wait until I have a little alone time later.
“So, hazelnut syrup?” Aiden says, shaking his head.
“Or pumpkin spice this time of year.”
I watch in fascination as Aiden pushes the eggs and bacon onto a plate with a spatula.
He then grabs a fork, sits at the table, and places a napkin on his lap.
It’s the most domestic thing I’ve seen in a minute.
I wonder if Geoff even knows how to make eggs.
He never attempted such a thing in my presence.
We were more of the order-in type of couple.
“You left some stuff in the bathroom,” Aiden says casually as he spears a big clump of eggs with his fork.
Oh crap.
I quickly turn on my heel and rush into the bathroom. My panties and bra are hanging over the shower curtain. Ugh. I was exhausted last night. Ready for bed. I’d tossed them on the floor and—
Oh, great. This means Aiden has touched my underwear.
And it’s my wear-under-a-power-suit underwear too.
Meant for business. They’re not quite granny panties, but they’re hardly sexy.
And my bra is just a boring nude underwire.
It is the workhorse of bras. Not that any sort of underwear would be good for leaving around, but this is just not my best presentation.
“Uh, sorry,” I call, feeling a blush heat my cheeks.
“No problem,” Aiden calls back.
I don’t have long to be embarrassed, because my phone buzzes, and I pull it out of my robe pocket to see a text from Maria.
where r u? why didn’t u pick up last night? r u dead?
Maria and I listen to too many true crime podcasts. We are both a little quick to jump to murder as the cause for either of us not replying. Looking at my phone, I realize Maria texted late last night and I hadn’t seen it till just now. The coffee smell distracted me. No wonder she’s worried.
i’m fine. i came out to my parents’ inn for a bit. be back in the city soon.
your parents’ place?? is this really you, El? text me something only u would know.
I smile. Maria knows me too well.
i once snorted espresso martini out of my nose at that party at the Gansevoort.
hmm 1 more thing
Suspicion runs deep in Maria. It’s an excellent quality in someone who is looking out for you.
i owe you $50 bc Taylor Swift and Travis Kelce made it past the year mark. though I still say I’m surprised.
hey! you do owe me $50. i forgot about that. pay up!
Yeah, well, I don’t have a job, so she’s gonna have to wait a little longer. I don’t text it, but I think it. you know I’m good for it , I type instead.
I bite my lip. What else can I say without lying?
i’ll explain why i’m out here later. catch up soon?
sure. but how did your presentation go?
tltt
tltt = Too Long to Text. Not a lie, but not exactly the truth either. Ugh. I’m not looking forward to telling Maria what happened. I’m not looking forward to telling anyone what happened.
k talk later and a smooch emoji is Maria’s trusting reply.
More guilt. I bite my lip.
After tossing my boring work underwear onto my bed, I make my way back to the kitchen and sit down across from Aiden.
I take another tentative sip of the sugar coffee.
“So... the festival. Do you want to tell me what you’ve already planned so I can take over?
” I try to keep my voice as bright and helpful as possible.
Aiden’s fork drops to his plate with a clatter, and his brows shoot up. “Take over?” he repeats. “I don’t think so.”
Ugh. I inwardly sigh. I don’t want to fight with this guy over the festival, but he needs to back off and let me do my thing. “My mom and your mom asked me to,” I inform him.
“They asked you to take over? Or help?” He eyes me with clear suspicion.
“I got the impression they want me to run it.” There. Might as well get down to it. I’m kinda all out of giving any effs about hurting a man’s feelings at the moment.
“Look,” Aiden says, standing and washing his plate with honest-to-goodness dishwashing liquid and a sponge. I stare at him like he is an actor in an old-timey movie.
“There’s a dishwasher,” I say, pointing to the little appliance I’d insisted Mom and Dad install up here.
“I know.” He stares back at me as if I’m from the future. “But it’s only one plate and one fork.”