4. Paige
Paige
“Before you say no, hear me out.”
I wedge my phone between my shoulder and ear and carry a glass of wine onto the porch. “Opening by acknowledging I’m going to say no doesn’t inspire confidence.”
My sister laughs. “Mom and Dad are coming to our place tomorrow. You could drive up and spend the weekend.”
“That’s a lovely invitation.”
“And?”
“I have plans.”
“With another human being?”
“Rude.”
“Accurate.”
The late-afternoon sun warms the porch, although shade has already crept across my hammock. I set my glass on the small table beside it, where my book waits with its glossy cover turned facedown.
“I’m hiking the north trail in the morning,” I tell her. “Then I have a hammock, a bottle of wine, and three hundred pages of people making questionable choices because they’re too busy having sex to communicate.”
“That sounds suspiciously specific.”
“It’s a new release.”
A man’s voice comes through the phone, too muffled for me to make out the words.
“Yes, please,” my sister calls back. “And I love you.”
“I love you too,” her husband answers.
She returns to me with a contented sigh. “He’s putting my dinner in the oven because I forgot to eat it while we were talking.”
“A passionate tale of married life.”
“He also brought home the good ice cream.”
“Okay, now you’re showing off.”
Their marriage works because of the small things. The arguments over batteries and birthday candles in the same drawer. The way he remembers her favorite ice cream, and the ridiculous notes she saves from her lunch.
My parents are the same. Thirty-six years, and I still hear the soft sound of Dad putting a coffee cup on Mom’s nightstand, and then her quiet complaint about the cream.
Love has never looked like a trap to me. It just hasn’t felt bigger than the quiet porch, the open trail, the life I already chose for myself.
“I’ll miss you,” my sister says. “We’ll plan another weekend.”
“Give me more than twelve hours’ notice next time.”
“Where’s the adventure in that?”
“Adventure is for books. I require a calendar.”
She laughs again. “Have fun with your fictional people.”
“I intend to.”
We say goodbye, and I settle into the hammock with my wine and book. The ropes shift beneath me as I stretch out, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Wind sighs through the trees surrounding the cabin, carrying the clean scent of pine across the porch.
This is why Friday belongs to me.
This week alone, I’ve had to explain to a father of four that his son’s reading map was not, in fact, a binding legal contract. I’ve settled two separate disputes over the same purple crayon and found a missing book exactly where it belonged, which is somehow always the most exhausting part.
I love my job. I also love the sharp, clean silence that follows when I close my cabin door on all of it, leaving nothing but the wind and a particularly judgmental squirrel.
Apparently, Aiden Slade considers that a flimsy excuse.
My mouth curves despite me.
He looked genuinely baffled when I refused his invitation. It seemed no one had ever explained that a broad chest, beautiful daughter, and famous last name do not automatically cancel another person’s plans.
Then I explained it to him.
He listened. That’s what followed me home. Not just his steady gaze, but the way his expression shifted when he realized I meant it. He hadn’t argued or tried to pressure me. He’d just watched me walk away, and I felt the heat of his focus on the back of my neck the whole way to my car.
I open my book to the page where I left off last night.
Several paragraphs later, the hero has the heroine’s wrists secured above her head and is giving her a detailed explanation of what he intends to do with his mouth. The scene is filthy, specific, and impressively committed to consent.
Usually, this is where the rest of the world disappears.
Tonight, Aiden keeps wandering onto the page.
The hero’s hands become Aiden’s. The command on the page lowers into his voice, and when I imagine the focused intensity in his eyes turning raw, a low, pulling heat coils deep in my stomach.
I slip the bookmark between the pages and stare out at the empty trail.
Apparently, anticipating Aiden Slade feels almost as satisfying as being alone.
That realization is inconvenient enough. Worse is wondering what he would say about the explicit chapter in my hand.
The truly dangerous part is that I can almost hear his answer.
The following afternoon settles into the library with the soft shuffle of pages and the occasional click from the circulation desk. I’m updating the summer reading registrations when a purple book slides across the counter and stops on top of my paperwork.
“I finished it,” Josie says.
I look up at her proud smile first. I look past her. A mistake. Aiden stands a few feet away in worn jeans and a dark gray T-shirt that stretches across his chest. His gaze meets mine, steady and far too amused for a man who hasn’t said anything yet.
“The whole thing?” I ask Josie.
“Even the big words. I only needed help with three.”
“Four,” Aiden says.
She twists toward him. “The horse’s name doesn’t count. It was made up.”
“I’m sure the horse appreciates your defense.”
I press my lips together, although Aiden catches the smile anyway. “What did you think?”
Josie turns back to me and plants both hands on the counter. “I liked the magic, but the girl kept doing things alone when she had friends who wanted to help. That made everything take longer.”
“It usually does.”
Aiden’s eyes remain on me. The words sound more pointed with him listening, so I add the book to the return cart before he can decide they mean anything.
“I want one with a baby dragon now,” Josie says. “A real one.”
“A real baby dragon?”
“Dragons can be real in books.”
“Excellent clarification.”
I lead her into the children’s section. Aiden follows without crowding us, and I’m aware of every quiet step behind me. Professional distance was easier before I spent last night putting his hands and voice into scenes that already had a perfectly adequate fictional man.
At the shelves, I pull out three options and crouch beside Josie. “This girl finds a dragon egg in the woods. This boy discovers a baby dragon living in his barn. This one has a dragon who thinks he’s a dog.”
Josie studies each cover before reaching for the baby dragon in the barn. “This one. He has to hide it from his dad.”
“I’m sure that goes well,” Aiden says.
“It will if the dad is nice.”
I glance up. “She makes a persuasive argument.”
“Please don’t encourage her to conceal livestock from me.”
“I’m a librarian. Encouraging questionable choices through books is part of the job.”
His mouth lifts into an unhurried smile. It makes him look less controlled, which only reminds me how much I want to see that control disappear.
Josie spots another display and hurries toward it. “Can I look at the sparkly ones?”
“You can look,” Aiden says.
She is already gone.
I rise, smoothing my skirt as Aiden steps back to give me room. His eyes follow the movement of my hands before lifting to my face.
“You’re good with her,” he says.
“She’s easy to like.”
His attention stays on me. “The feeling is mutual.”
His tone carries no expectation and makes no attempt to turn Josie’s affection into leverage after I rejected his invitation. That should make holding the line I set easier.
Instead, it makes him more attractive.
I return to the desk while Josie debates the merits of glitter with herself. Aiden carries the dragon book and sets it beside my paperwork. His eyes drop to the edge of my paperback peeking out beneath the summer-program file.
“Is that what won Friday night?”
I slide the file over it. “My plans won Friday night.”
“The book was part of the plan.”
“So were wine and a hammock. It was a strong team.”
He leans one forearm on the counter. “Was it worth turning me down?”
“I wasn’t aware you required a review.”
“I’m curious about the competition.”
“You haven’t asked me on a date, Aiden. You invited me to a family cookout.”
“And you chose that book.”
“Happily.”
The satisfaction on his face says my answer interests him more than an apology would have. His fingers catch the exposed corner when I adjust the file.
“You’re going to judge the cover,” I warn.
“I can handle a man without a shirt.”
“That confidence is exactly why I’m warning you.”
He slips the paperback free, and I let it go rather than wrestle Aiden Slade across the circulation desk.
“Careful.”
“You’re blushing.”
“I’m irritated.”
“Your irritation is pink.”
He opens the book where the spine naturally gives, directly to the page I marked last night.
His eyes drop to the first line.
Put your hands over your head and keep them there while I use my mouth until you forget every word except my name.
Aiden doesn’t blink.
His thumb presses the page open, his gaze sweeping over the sentence a second time. A flicker of surprise, then something else—a focused, assessing interest that brings a fresh wave of heat to my cheeks.
“Give me the book.”
He holds it out, although his eyes lift slowly to mine. “This is romance?”
I take it from him. “This is chapter twenty-two. They’ve spent plenty of time discussing their feelings.”
“Apparently, they moved on to other topics.”
“Character growth takes many forms. Besides, you’ve only read one sentence.”
“One very informative sentence.”
“You weren’t invited to be informed.”
“You brought it to work.”
“For my lunch break. A file on top of something usually means ‘do not touch.’”
“Most people don’t blush this prettily when someone finds them.”
I glance toward Josie. She has settled into a beanbag with a glittery book open across her knees. No one is waiting at the circulation desk, but Aiden’s voice carries too well for him to be discussing oral sex in the middle of my workplace.
“If you insist on conducting a literary investigation, we’re moving away from the desk.”
He follows me into the nearest aisle, keeping Josie within sight. The shelves block us from the entrance and most of the reading area, wrapping the quiet around us, making the conversation dangerously private.
I hold the book against my chest. “You thought romance novels were sweet, didn’t you?”
“I assumed there would be more longing and fewer commands.”
“There’s plenty of longing. It simply pays off.”
His eyes lower to the paperback pressed against my breasts, and the muscle along his jaw tightens. “Do they all come with instructions?”
“Only the useful ones.”
“Do you highlight for research?”
I smile even though my face is still warm. “No. I remember what interests me.”
His control slips.
It’s a small shift—his fingers tightening on the edge of the shelf, the amusement in his eyes darkening to something else. He’s no longer reading about a fictional scene. His gaze travels over my body, and I know he’s not picturing the heroine anymore.
“That interested you?” he asks.
“I marked the page, didn’t I?”
His gaze returns to mine. “You think a man needs a book to figure that out?”
“I think fictional men tend to understand instructions better than real ones.”
“Maybe you’ve been giving them to the wrong men.”
“Or maybe real men overestimate themselves.”
A quiet laugh leaves him. “You have strong opinions for someone hiding her book under paperwork.”
“I was protecting you. Your innocent understanding of romance has been shattered.”
“I’ll recover.”
“Eventually.”
He steps closer without touching me. The aisle is narrow enough that his body fills the space—a solid wall of broad shoulders and deliberate restraint. He smells like clean soap and sun-warmed skin, and every fictional woman who made reckless decisions beside bookshelves starts making sense.
“You really believe that?” he asks.
“That you’ll recover?”
“That a real man couldn’t deliver.”
The words are low and controlled, and my pulse jumps with no respect for the fact that we’re surrounded by children’s books.
“I believe evidence matters.”
“And what would qualify as evidence?”
“A successful demonstration.”
His grip tightens on the shelf. Retreating would let me keep possession of the conversation. I lift my chin.
“Consent would be important,” I add, “fictional standards have improved.”
“Any man worth inviting into your bed would make sure you wanted him there.” His gaze drops to my mouth. “Then he’d listen when you told him what you wanted.”
The teasing drains from his voice, leaving something rougher behind. My thighs press together as the passage replays with Aiden’s hands, his mouth, his name.
“Confident,” I say.
“Experienced.”
“Arrogant.”
“You challenged real men.”
“I made an observation about them as a group.”
“I’m only interested in defending my part of it.”
The answer is too quick to be a line, and the lack of practice in it is what makes my breath catch.
Josie calls from the reading area. “Dad, can I get two?”
Aiden looks over the shelves. “You can get two.”
“Even though the sparkly one has no dragons?”
“I’m willing to be flexible.”
She beams and disappears behind her book again.
When Aiden turns back, his control is firmly in place, but I’ve already seen what exists beneath it.
He reaches toward my paperback. I hold it tighter.
“I’m not giving it to you.”
“I’m not taking it.”
His eyes settle on the cover long enough to read the title and author. He doesn’t say them aloud; he doesn’t have to for me to know he’s memorized them.
“Enjoy the rest of your research,” he says.
“Enjoy thinking about it.”
His mouth curves as he backs out of the aisle. “I already am.”
He collects Josie and heads toward the desk with her books, and the scene from Friday night returns uninvited: my hands above my head, his mouth, and the single, ragged sound of my name.