Chapter 16
SIXTEEN
AARON
Why won’t my sauce thicken?
Fuck.
I’ve tried everything: adding tomato paste, not stirring it too often, letting it simmer.
I grab the wooden spoon again and taste it for the fourth time, licking the end of it as I adjust the heat of the burner. My kitchen is quiet except for the flame beneath my pan and the hum of the city thirty floors below, light struggling to stream in as the sun disappears behind the skyscrapers.
Floor-to-ceiling windows. Clean lines. Everything in its place.
Except me.
My phone buzzes against the marble island.
Sutton.
Of course it’s Sutton.
I swipe to answer. “What?”
She doesn’t even greet me. “You are trending.”
I close my eyes. “For what?”
“For being America’s gentle giant, apparently.”
I brace my forearms on the counter. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
I hear my sister grinning through the phone. “There’s a video of you reading to those kids at the library this afternoon. It’s everywhere. TikTok. Instagram. Someone put soft piano music under it.” She laughs. “Aaron, you were smiling.”
“I was not smiling,” I grumble. “That must have been constipation. And for the record, that was for community relations.”
Sutton cackles. “How did that work out for you?”
I find myself smiling, despite myself. “So great. Zero kids were interested in the story, they were far too busy interrogating me about my ears, nose, and why I don’t have a wife.”
“They did not!” She’s laughing so hard I can hear her trying to breathe. “They’re six.”
“Would I lie to you?” I stir my sauce, adding another dash of salt.
My sister considers this. “Probably not.”
Damn right I wouldn’t lie.
She hums. “Well, it was a fun picture to see. It’s been a while since I’ve seen you like that.”
“Like what?”
“You know, smiling. Happy.”
“I’m always happy.”
Sutton continues giggling. “Dude, all you do these days is scowl and sneer at people. Molly was asking if Uncle Aaron was actually the Grinch in disguise.”
She is so full of shit. “Sounds like my niece is as dramatic as her mother.”
“Wow.” Sutton doesn’t miss a beat. “Attack a child.”
“She gets it from you.” I snort and set the lid on the pan, the heavy cast-iron clinking softly as it settles. I swing the pot-filler over an empty pot, turn the handle, water rushing into the pot.
“She most certainly does not.” There’s a pause on her end. “Why does it sound like you’re cooking?”
“Because I am cooking.”
Duh.
Obviously.
“Don’t be a smartass.”
“Can’t help it.” I laugh, tap the spoon against the pan, and set it on a plate next to the stove.
“What are you making?”
“Ragù.”
Attempting to, anyway.
“Excuse me? I thought you said you were making ragù.” More pausing. “You mean you’re heating it up from a jar?”
“No, I’m using Grandma B’s recipe.”
Silence. I can practically hear the wheels turning in that part of her sister brain that cannot let things go. She’s latching on now that she’s caught a whiff of something.
“Wait. Are you having company?”
“Yes.”
“Wait,” she says again. “FaceTime me, I want to see this.”
“Absolutely not.”
“Come on!” Sutton whines, trying to video chat. “Let me see.”
I decline and continue with my tasks: boiling water, stirring sauce, unthawing garlic knots.
“You never have company.”
“False. I have teammates over all the time.” Sometimes… At least once a year.
“Pfft. You order pizza.”
“So? I like pizza.”
“Well, who’s coming for dinner?” I imagine Sutton leaning against her kitchen counter now, arms crossed, pouting because I’m slow with information. “Tell me!”
“If I tell you, you’re going to tell Mom.”
“I promise I won’t.”
I hesitate, which she takes as a sign to ask a follow-up question.
“Is a woman coming over?”
“Bailey and I haven’t been broken up long.”
She gasps, calling me on my bullshit without calling me out on my bullshit. “Oh my god, you are seeing someone new.”
“Bailey and I were over long before we were over.”
“I’m not judging you—I think it’s great that you’re not going to… you know. Wallow in it.”
My sister is probably doing cartwheels in her kitchen at this news.
“Name a single time you’ve ever seen me wallow,” I challenge her, and my sister goes silent a few moments.
“That time your senior year of college when Mckenzie Sinclair dumped you the week before prom so she could go with Stan Cooper.”
I snort. “I couldn’t have given a shit about Mckenzie Sinclair.” Or the dance. Or Stan Cooper.
I grab a towel to wipe my hands.
“You liar! I heard you complaining about it to Mom.” Sutton lowers her voice so it sounds deeper. “‘I don’t understand why she said yes when I asked, if she wanted to go with him the entire time.’”
I had said that.
“You were eavesdropping!” I accuse her.
“I was gathering intel.”
“You were sixteen. Should I bring up the time you were crying because Davis Connelly asked you to be on Homecoming court with him, but his date was Stacia Metzger?”
There’s a sharp inhale on the other end.
“I liked him, you asshole.”
“You liked his Jeep.”
“So? It was a nice Jeep.”
We’re both laughing now, and I smile as I remove the cast-iron cover for the sauce. It bubbles nicely, simmering and getting thicker the longer I let it sit.
I shake my head. “For the record, Davis Connelly was a fucking tool, and you could do better.”
“Aww, you do love me.”
“I have no choice.”
“Rude! I’m telling Mom you said that.” Sutton giggles, and I hear a cabinet slam in the background, followed by what sounds like one of her kids asking for a snack. “Is this girl anything like Bailey, or is she normal?”
“Dang, Sutton.” I wince at her comment. “Shots fired.”
“I’m asking a legitimate question.”
I lean against the sink, gazing out through the windows at the city.
“Well?” she presses. “What’s she like?”
I don’t answer right away. “Not like Bailey.”
“Low bar.” She sniffles.
“You asked!”
“Give me more, please.”
I roll my eyes. “Her brother is one of my teammates, so she’s unaffected and unimpressed by all the shit that goes with it.”
“That’s good.”
“She’s sweet—genuinely a kind person.” The words feel strange in my mouth even though I’ve said them to Juliette; it’s weird saying them to my sister.
“To you?” Sutton pounces.
“To everyone,” I correct. “But yeah. To me, too.”
Sutton makes a small, scoffing noise. “Go on.”
“There’s not much to tell, we’ve only gone out once.”
“What’s her name?”
I hesitate to tell her, knowing Sutton is going to go all CSI down the online rabbit hole to find photos and information about Juliette. Considering I’ll be dumping her as soon as she’s head over heels in love with me, I keep her name to myself.
“Let me feel this out first; let’s not get everyone worked up about it—you know better than that.”
My sister grunts, disappointed, but she knows I’m right. Women come and go. No point looping the family in too early.
“I still think you’re gatekeeping.”
“You know I’m right.”
“Come on,” Sutton wheedles. “I won’t stalk her.”
“Yes, you will.” I laugh.
“You are no fun.” There’s a pause. “But you like her enough to cook her dinner from scratch.” She says it as if she’s not setting up a trap.
I glance at the stove. At the sauce that’s been simmering so it will thicken. At the red wine I set out. At the pasta ready to add to the boiling water.
I’m using her, but yes. “She’s great.”
The doorbell cuts through the condo, causing my sister to inhale sharply.
“Oh my god, that’s her, isn’t it?”
“Yeah.”
“Okay, big brother. Go be charming. And don’t overcook the pasta.”
Please—since when have I ever cooked pasta? Give me a damn break.
“I won’t.”
“And Aaron?”
“What?”
“Have fun.”
“Thanks. Love you.”
“Love you, too.”
I rinse my hands, dry them, then lumber toward the entry. Steel myself before pulling open the front door, only to be momentarily stupefied by the sight of Juliette standing on the other side.
Yes, I was expecting her.
Yes, I was fully aware she’d be ringing my doorbell at seven.
No, I wasn’t ready for how she’d look.
Her hair is down—down, not braided within an inch of its life—falling onto her shoulders in loose waves, long and soft. Button-down shirt is only buttoned to the center of her chest, lace bra flirting with my line of vision. Same jeans. Same shoes.
Pink lips.
Doe eyes.
Super fucking pretty.
When I saw her several hours ago, she could have blended in with the librarians—hair braided, conservative outfit, all business and no flirting. Not even with Storm, though that doesn’t stop him from trying.
The thought of him has me scowling as I gaze down at her.
There’s a half beat where I stand here a second too long, taking her in, and she shifts under my scrutiny.
Shit.
She’s supposed to be falling in love with you, not getting creeped out by you, dude.
Right.
Time to start laying on the charm.
“Please, come to the kitchen.” Without fully thinking it through, I lean down and press a quick kiss to her cheek as she passes over the threshold, and it catches us both off guard, a little O of surprise forming on her mouth.
Then—because she smells so fucking good—I wrap my arms around her waist and finish the job, pulling her against my body for a kiss.
It’s not tentative.
Her hands fly to my chest on instinct, a quiet sound of surprise escaping her before her tongue meets mine. And not to brag, but yeah, she melts against me. Fingers curling into my shirt, body fitting into mine.
I angle my head, deepen it enough to make my dick twitch.
When we pull back, she’s out of breath. Touches the tips of her fingers to her lips.
“Well,” she says, voice a little unsteady. “That escalated quickly.”
“You started it.”
She laughs. “I did not.”
“You showed up looking like that.” Like a straight-A librarian with a filthy secret. The prim little button-down. Beneath it? I already know what sort of shit she wears and that memory alone makes my dick harder still.
Fuck.
Her chin notches defiantly. “Looking like what, exactly?”
I lean in, close enough that my mouth brushes her ear. “Like you wanted to be kissed.”
Her breath stutters when I nibble her earlobe.
“I came here to have dinner,” she says, but there’s no conviction behind it. “I was starving.”