Chapter 28 Aiden
Aiden
For our third date, I took Mia to the Flynn Center for the Performing Arts to see Rodgers and Hammerstein’s Oklahoma.
She was radiant in a deep green wrap dress, her hair loose and soft around her shoulders. We sat in the velvet seats, our arms brushing every time we moved.
I didn’t watch the performance, I watched her watching it.
She mouthed the lyrics to “Oh, What a Beautiful Mornin’.”
She laughed at the lines.
At intermission, we drank champagne and talked about the staging, her eyes bright and alive in a way that made me ache.
On the walk to the car, I kissed her—just a brush of my mouth against hers. She let me linger.
I could’ve lived in that moment.
Our fourth date was a hike up Mount Philo.
I packed the sandwiches—turkey and apple slices on whole grain—and brought a thermos of her favorite iced lemon-ginger tea.
The climb was warm but not unbearable. We took our time.
At the summit, we spread a blanket and enjoyed our picnic.
The valley below us was lush and green.
I kissed her again, her fingers sticky from the apple slices.
She laughed into my mouth like she couldn’t believe this was real.
Neither could I.
For our fifth date, we went out for dinner and dancing.
We both felt we were too old for a nightclub, but after a couple of cocktails, we got into it, ending the night laughing so hard our sides hurt, our bodies pressed close on a too-crowded dance floor.
By the time we stumbled out into the cool night air, cheeks flushed and hands clasped tight, it felt like we’d shaken off years of heaviness.
We weren’t ex-husband and ex-wife with baggage, or trying to find common ground—we were just two people who still knew how to have fun together, rediscovering that spark one song at a time.
Each of those dates gave me back something I’d lost since stepping into the CEO role and letting Winter Financial consume me.
I’d been so focused on driving the company forward that I never considered the cost—how the late nights and endless pressure carved out a gulf between Mia and me. And in that space, I let Diana slip in.
Never again, I promise myself every time I get to hold her hand. As I get to feel her fingers curl around mine, like we were made to fit together. As I kiss her in quiet corners, in moments between words, and each time, it feels like a privilege I haven’t quite earned but am desperate to keep.
I can’t imagine how I ever took this woman for granted.
How I let myself forget the miracle of being in her presence.
Because being with Mia—just being with her—is so fucking special it hurts like a bitch to leave her, knowing she isn’t going to sleep in my bed.
For our sixth date, I decided to invite her for dinner at our home.
“It’s going to be a disaster,” Huxley tells me when I call to ask him to give me the number of the chef who runs the fine dining restaurant at his flagship hotel.
“I’m going to make this work,” I tell him. “Now, just give me the damn number.”
“How about I get this dinner catered so you don’t poison Mia?”
Mia thinks I have cooked for her twice. The first time was when we were dating. I served undercooked pasta with overcooked chicken, and a whole lot of charm that barely made up for it.
The second time, I ordered from an upscale Italian place, plated it, and passed it off as mine.
“No. I want to do this.”
“Christ. Then make something simple instead of freaking risotto.”
“She loves truffle risotto.”
“Fuck!” Huxley swears. “How about I send the chef over to guide you?”
“No,” I snap. “Just let me talk to him. That’s all I need.”
I didn’t want some other man cooking for Mia. It had to be me.
So, with the help of Chef Luigi, who thankfully was a romantic (and therefore tolerant of my efforts), I made my wife’s favorite risotto.
Arborio rice, slow-stirred in rich broth, finished with truffle oil and shavings of Parmigiano-Reggiano I bought from a specialty store in town (recommended by Chef).
On the side, thanks to Chef Luigi, I am ready to serve roasted seasonal vegetables—spring carrots, fennel, and asparagus—drizzled in lemon butter.
There is warm focaccia. This was delivered by Chef Luigi, who declared that there was no way in hell he could teach me that.
I’m ready with fifteen minutes to spare.
I put a chilled bottle of Grüner Veltliner on the table because she likes her wine crisp, a little floral on the nose, and very dry.
Candles flicker on the table. After all, no romantic dinner feels complete without the steady burn of tapered candles standing guard.
Thelonious Monk hums from the speakers.
Everything is ready, and so am I—except I’m pacing the hallway by the front door like a man waiting to hear his fate.
I open the door as soon as there’s a discreet knock.
I have to close my mouth when I see her.
Mia is wearing a little black dress as if this is a proper date.
Since I’m in dress pants and a crisp white button-down, it looks like we both understood the assignment.
She inhales as soon as she steps in, and then walks brusquely into the kitchen. She looks at the table and the stove, turns to me. “You cooked.”
“I did.”
“Really?” Her eyes narrow.
“What does that mean?”
She rolls her eyes. “The last time you cooked, you actually ordered from Trattoria Delia.”
“You knew?”
“Please. You are not going to go from not knowing when pasta is cooked to making gnocchi.”
I smile sheepishly as she sets down her purse on the kitchen island and walks to the stove. She lifts the lid of the pot and takes in the scent. “Risotto.”
“I made it. I even sweated.” I point to my collar. “See this? It’s from effort, not nerves.”
She laughs, and that laugh, fuck me, I’ll chase it to the end of my days.
We sit down to eat, and I’m nervous as fuck. It tasted fine when I tried it but what if it’s terrible?
“This is really good,” she says between bites. “What happened to the guy who couldn’t boil water?
“He fell in love. Twice.”
She glances at me, lips parting, but she doesn’t say anything.
“And maybe an Italian chef walked me through it over the phone. One of Hux’s.”
“Speaking of Hux, how’s he doing?”
We speak easily about our friends, and I tell her that they miss her, because somehow they got me in the divorce, but would much prefer to have Mia.
When our plates are empty, we linger. She holds her wine glass lightly in both hands. The candlelight flickers in her eyes.
“So, the board meeting is in two weeks?” she asks.
I nod.
“How do you feel?”
I fix my gaze on her, weighing my next words. “That if the board wants me gone, I’ll go. I’m not going to tell you that it won’t sting. It will. A part of me feels…that it’s so unfair.”
“It is.” She puts her hand on mine.
Comforting comes instinctively to her. I have no problem taking advantage of it. I turn my palm so our fingers intertwine.
“I feel a little humiliated that Dad still has the power to chuck me out on my ass when I don’t listen to him.”
She squeezes my hand.
“And…I feel relieved.”
She frowns, puzzled. “What? Why?”
I play with her fingers. “Why? Because it’s a lot of work, Mia. A lot of stress. The thought that in two weeks I could just do whatever the fuck I want, whenever I want it is…well, it’s a very freeing feeling.”
Her eyes soften with understanding. “So, what’s next?”
“Should there be a next? Maybe I’ll just sit on my ass.”
She arches a brow, amusement flickering in her gaze. “That’s not who you are.”
I dip my head in acknowledgement. “How do you feel about dessert? I didn’t make it. Chef Luigi did. Tiramisu.”
“Okay. But can we sit outside? I’ve missed the garden.”
“I’ve made sure it’s taken care of. It’s waiting for you like I am.”
She flushes.
She helps me clean up. After, we take our tiramisu and glasses of port out to the back porch.
She sits on the wicker couch. I take my place next to her. I want to be close.
She dips her spoon into the tiramisu and takes a bite. “Wow!”
When I taste it, I agree with her.
“I have been thinking about what comes next,” I confess. “The thing is that I don’t want to work in finance…well, not in the way I have been.”
“What have you been thinking about?” she prods.
“We’re very fortunate to have the resources we do.
” I stroke some strands of hair from her face.
“What I want is something with purpose. I’ve been looking into a few non-profits—supporting kids, education, and mental health.
There’s one in Montpelier that works with trauma-informed child advocacy. Maybe…I can help them.”
She takes a sip of her port, and nods thoughtfully. “You want to do volunteer work.”
“No. I want to work for a non-profit, have a job. I just don’t need to get paid a lot.” I watch her to assess her reaction.
“Fair.”
“You know, you could do anything now,” I remind her. “You’ve got as much money as I do. That prenup clause…it made us equals in a way my family never imagined.”
She sets her glass down, rests her chin in her palm. “I have been thinking about it.” She tilts her head and grins at me. “Since I’m going to be able to be a woman of leisure soon…if I wish.”
“Which you don’t.”
She straightens. “I love working with children. Some of the foster kids who come through…. You can tell who comes from chaos and who doesn’t. Then there are the foster parents—angels, so many of them—who love those kids like their own. I want to help them. I don’t know how, but….”
My heart hammered as an idea struck.
“What if we did something together?” I suggest.
“How do you mean?”
“Think of this as loud brainstorming,” I warn her. “How about we start a non-profit. Supporting foster children and the families that care for them. We offer resources. Training. Therapy. School support. Even housing, if we can grow it enough.”
Her lips part, and I see it—the light in her eyes that only comes from dreaming.
“Can we do that?”
“Yeah. I mean, we can’t fund it all ourselves; we don’t have that kind of money. But we can start it and fundraise, get support from the state even….”
She places a hand on mine. “You know Cristiano works with several non-profits. I’m sure he can help us.”
That’s the guy she was with after she left me on Christmas Eve. I know they’re only friends, but I’m still jealous.
“Let’s talk to him,” I offer.
She smiles, her eyes bright. “This could be really something. Us doing something good. Something that matters.”
I lean and kiss her softly.
Fuck, but I want her.
“It feels right.” I kiss her nose. “I feel like we’re dreaming in the same direction.”
I rest my lips on hers, and her mouth opens. She lets me in.
I taste her slowly at first, like I’m sipping, but soon enough greed takes over. I want more. My hands mold her to me, and I devour.
When we part, we’re both breathing hard.
“This,” she whispers, “this is the best date I’ve ever been on.”