Chapter 15
I am proud of myself. Last night, I did not pound on Aiden’s door and attempt to slide into bed with him.
I wanted to, but, like a completely calm and rational adult, I felt along the wall in the dark until I found my own bedroom, went inside, closed the door, and then totally obsessed about our kiss all night.
I mean, how could he kiss me like that and just casually go to bed? It makes no sense. Unless... he wasn’t as physically affected by the kiss as I was. But I know he was. I felt it. I was pressed up against him. His body is just as hard and cut as it looked, btw.
At first, I was kinda hoping he’d come to my room and finish what he started. Okay, perhaps “kinda hoping” is inaccurate. It may have been more like praying hard with both sweaty hands pressed together, and some grandiose promises made to the Universe.
Then, I spent way too much time contemplating whether I should go to his room. But by the time I finally fell asleep, I realized that the kiss was enough. It was plenty. We got it out of our systems. We both clearly wanted to try it. So we did. And now we can move on and work together.
It’s great, actually. If we’d done any more, I would feel guilty.
I mean, weren’t there townsfolk talking about how I supposedly “left Aiden”?
Aiden himself had admitted that he’d wanted me to stay.
And I have no intention of staying. Not back then and not now.
As soon as I get a job, any job, I’ll be back in the city.
And then what? If we start something, people will say I left Aiden twice ? No thank you.
So, by the time I woke up this morning I was counting my lucky stars that all we did was kiss. Anything else would have crossed the line. A kiss is no big deal.
It’s nearly eight a.m., and I know Aiden is long gone out in the orchards, but I am still hiding in my room because what if he comes back for breakfast?
I’m not ready to face him after last night.
I need to gather myself. Gather my thoughts.
Gather my... everything. When I see him again, I need to be casually yet classily dressed, in full professional mode (perhaps even carrying a clipboard, everyone looks busy with a clipboard), and dripping with confidence.
Enough confidence to assure him that the kiss meant nothing, and now that we’ve gone ahead and done it, we can move along with our business relationship.
I’m still in PJs with bedhead, so I shouldn’t risk leaving my room. But I do really want my pumpkin-spice coffee, and Aiden’s been leaving the coffeepot on warm for me. It’s too tempting to resist.
I slide out of my bed, pad over, and press my ear to the door. No noise. The apartment is empty. I know it.
I crack open the door. Still nothing. And it’s daylight, so Aiden’s definitely not stealthily waiting for me like last night.
It’s only about twenty feet from my door to the coffeepot.
I am being silly. I am a grown adult, and I want some coffee.
I should not have to sneak around in my own parents’ attic apartment.
I open the door wide and boldly make my way to the kitchen holding my head high. I take out a mug. I get the creamer out of the fridge. I pour the still-warm coffee into the mug. I grab a spoon.
I am fine. This is fine. All is well.
And that’s when the door to the apartment opens and Aiden steps inside.
In addition to my bed head and PJs, there is nary a bra. I briefly consider sprinting to my room.
No. It’s too late for that. Which means there is only one way to handle this. Complete and total denial. “Morning!” I’m too loud again, but it’s the least of my issues.
“Hi,” Aiden says. He looks like he should be on the cover of Hot Farmer Weekly . He’s wearing worn jeans, scuffed brown boots, and a blue-and-gray flannel shirt over a tight white T that’s clinging to his abs. The abs I totally fondled in the dark last night.
I wish it was dark again. I would slink away. Instead, I pour the pumpkin-spice creamer into my coffee mug and stir with aplomb.
Aiden leans his shoulder against the wall next to the cabinets and bites his lip. I cannot look at that. I am still experiencing memories of his hands on my ass last night. Looking at his mouth—or any of him, frankly—may send me into a full-throttled tailspin.
“Do you want to talk about it?” he asks.
“Talk about what?” There have been times in my life when I am acutely unhappy with the fact that I grew up in a family that made passive aggression an art form.
My parents argue through a pug, for heaven’s sake.
But today, today, I have never been so relieved that I am able, with a completely straight face, to pretend as if I have no earthly idea what Aiden is talking about.
“Uh, our kiss last night?”
Well, okay. He’s just going to blow my passive aggression right out the window, eh? Fine. I can be assertive too. “No. I do not want to talk about it.” I raise my coffee mug to my lips and gulp down half of it. I need the caffeine immediately if we’re going to keep having this conversation.
“Fair enough,” he says.
I nearly melt onto the kitchen floor in a puddle of relief.
“Then can I ask you about the budget for the festival?” he says next.
I am slowly moving back toward my bedroom while running my fingers through my unkempt hair and sucking down more coffee.
“I told you.” My tone is light. I want to sound breezy.
As if I have everything under control. “A well-orchestrated event is not cheap. But the money it’ll bring in should cover it. ”
“Can I see the budget?” he asks.
“Yes.” I mostly agree because showing him the budget means I can disappear into my room for a few moments and get myself together. “Just a sec,” I say.
I hustle into the bedroom and close the door.
I set down my coffee, then, I rip off my PJs, find a suitable bra, and pull-on leggings and a dark-green sweater.
I’ve been bringing my travel kit from the bathroom into the bedroom with me every night so Aiden can’t see all the personal stuff inside it, which means I have my brush, and I make quick work of my hair.
I toss on some lip gloss and mascara, grab my laptop from the bedside table, and saunter back out into the living room as if I wasn’t just frantically trying to make myself look hot in under five minutes.
Aiden is pouring himself another cup of coffee, so his back is toward me when I slide up to the kitchen counter. I set my laptop in front of one of the bar stools and flip it open. Then I find the budget that’s in my recent files.
“Here you go,” I announce, turning the laptop to face him.
He turns around and sets down his mug, bending at the waist and bracing his forearms on the counter. And if it all wasn’t hot enough, he then proceeds to pull out a pair of reading glasses from his front shirt pocket and push them up on his nose. Much to my dismay, he’s giving full Clark Kent.
I swallow hard and look away.
He spends a good five minutes staring at the spreadsheet while I gulp coffee and try not to stare at him.
Especially when I sidle around the back of him to get more coffee and all I can think about is the moment he pulled me hard against his body last night.
Oof. That is going in the memory bank forever.
I actually need to write it down in case of future dementia.
I cannot rely on my brain to keep ahold of that. It’s too good to risk losing.
He’s sort of grunting every few minutes. I want to ask him what made him grunt, but I decide to keep my mouth shut. The less discussion we have about the budget, the better. I learned that from working with clients at GMJ. Be transparent but don’t linger.
“According to this, we’ll make thousands of dollars,” he finally says.
“Yep.” I hug my coffee mug to my chest.
“Are all these numbers accurate?” he asks next.
“Some are estimates, but they are close,” I confidently inform him.
He pulls off his glasses and tucks them back in his pocket. “And where is the money coming from to pay the vendors up front?”
“That’s the beauty of it,” I say. “I got most of them to agree to bill us.”
“Bill us?” He looks skeptical.
“Yep. Bill us, and we’ll pay in a month when the festival is over and we’ve made the money.”
To my surprise, he nods and says, “It looks good, Ellie. Thank you.”
I want to wipe the sweat off my forehead and make a relieved shoosh noise, but instead I merely take a little sip of coffee.
It’s my turn to ask an unwelcome question.
“Now that you’ve seen the budget, will you tell me what you’re doing out behind the work barn and maybe in the greenhouse?
” Okay, that was a non sequitur delivered with absolutely no finesse, but in my defense, the coffee has barely kicked in and my brain had signaled loudly to change the subject.
Aiden tips his head to the side and narrows his eyes. “Why are you asking?”
“Because I truly want to know. You can’t just act all mysterious and not expect a girl to be curious.”
He straightens to his full height and says, “Can you keep a secret?”
“You have a couple secrets of mine,” I remind him.
“True,” he says with a smile and another tug on his bottom lip with his teeth that causes a tremor of lust to roll through my lower half. He takes a deep breath. “I’ve been working on a hybrid apple.”
“A hybrid apple?” It’s not a particularly shocking answer, but it’s one I wasn’t expecting.
“Yeah.” He nods. “It’s a cross between a Honeycrisp and a Golden Delicious.”
“That sounds good,” I say. And it really does. “Why didn’t you tell me? This could be huge.”
He rests his forearm atop his head. “I’m not sure it’s ready yet.
The ripe ones taste pretty good, but I’ve just started planting some others.
The skin is thicker than a Honeycrisp to make it less susceptible to sunburn and disease.
Calcium deficiency is also a concern, but I’m pretty sure I solved that problem. ”