6. Paige
Paige
The delivery driver abandons six boxes of books at the wrong end of the farmers’ market and gives me a sympathetic shrug.
“This is as close as I can get.”
“My booth is two aisles over.”
“Sorry. Road’s blocked.”
He climbs back into his van before I can point out that the vendors are the reason the road is blocked—a detail a farmers’ market delivery service should probably anticipate.
I check the time. Twenty-eight minutes until the market opens.
Perfect.
I stack two smaller boxes and manage three steps before the top one shifts.
“Planning to carry all of those yourself?”
Aiden’s voice comes from behind me, followed by Josie’s, “Miss Paige!”
I tighten my grip and turn. Josie is wearing sparkly pink sunglasses and bouncing on the balls of her feet. Aiden stands beside her in worn jeans, boots, and a fitted navy T-shirt, and I have to remind myself I’m annoyed.
“I was planning to make several trips.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“It was the answer you were getting.”
Amusement pulls at his mouth as he glances at the boxes, then back at me. “Would you like help?”
I lose my train of thought somewhere around his biceps.
“You’re asking?”
“I’m capable of learning.”
“Recent evidence suggests otherwise.”
“Recent evidence got me your address.”
Heat crawls beneath my collar. “It got you permission to ask again.”
“I remember exactly what it got me.” His gaze holds mine. “Do you want help, Paige?”
I surrender the boxes. “Yes.”
Aiden takes both as if they weigh nothing. The muscles along his forearms tighten, and my gaze follows them with embarrassing dedication.
Josie pushes her sunglasses onto her head. “I can help too.”
“I have a very important job for you.” I hand her the tote filled with bookmarks. “Can you put one on every chair?”
“All of them?”
“Every single one.”
She marches toward the booth as if the success of the entire event depends on her.
Aiden looks at me. “Good delegation.”
“Children’s librarian.”
“Bossy.”
“Says the man who arrived thirty seconds ago and took over my delivery.”
“You gave me the boxes.”
After the conversation at the library, I should stop being surprised when he pays attention to my wording. He carries the first load to the booth, returns for two more, then angles his chin toward the remaining pair.
“Those too?”
“Yes, please.”
He waits instead of deciding he knows better, then does exactly what I requested. It’s a small correction, and my stomach does something ridiculous in response.
By the time I join him, Josie has placed bookmarks on the chairs, the table, and one corner of the sidewalk.
“I had extras,” she says.
“Excellent use of resources.”
Aiden crouches beside the folding display rack, which has chosen today to develop a drunken lean. He tests the hinge, pulls a multi-tool from his pocket, and tightens something underneath.
“You carry that everywhere?” I ask.
“I work on a ranch.”
“Do cows require tiny screwdrivers?”
“Constantly.”
I laugh, and his eyes lift to mine. He holds my gaze, and for a second I’m back in the library stacks, his body close to mine, the almost-kiss a breath away.
He rises and grips the side of the repaired display. “The ground is flatter near the front. Can I move this?”
“You think it needs to move?”
“I think it’ll tip when people start pulling books from the top shelf. Your booth, your call.”
The reminder is deliberate, and I feel a flicker of reluctant respect.
I point toward the open space beside the table. “Put it there.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“I think I liked it better when you called me ‘lady.’”
His eyes sharpen with amusement. “You liked arguing with me.”
“I still do.”
“I’ve noticed.”
He moves the display, then helps me load it without touching a single book until I tell him where it belongs.
Hardcovers on the bottom, picture books at eye level for the children, summer-reading sign on top.
He follows every direction. “First I’ll get the sparkly pencil,” Josie announces, “and then the dragon bookmark.”
When we finish, the booth looks organized, colorful, and ready with six minutes to spare.
“You saved me at least twenty minutes,” I admit.
Aiden leans one hip against the table. “Careful. That almost sounded grateful.”
“I said you saved time. I didn’t say I enjoyed watching you do it.”
His gaze drops briefly to my mouth. “You didn’t have to.”
I turn toward the last open box because staring back might tempt me to do something reckless at a library booth.
We reach for it together.
Warm and rough, his hand closes over mine on the cardboard edge, his fingers brushing across my knuckles. Neither of us moves.
His gaze lifts from our joined hands to my face.
I leave my hand exactly where it is. His thumb moves once across my knuckle.
“Miss Paige, people are coming,” Josie calls from the other side of the table.
Aiden releases me slowly enough to make it clear he chose to. I turn toward the first family approaching the booth and blame the warmth under my skin on the morning sun.
The lie gets less convincing as the market fills.
Aiden stays. He answers a mother’s question about the ten-book prize while I’m busy, and carries a case of water from the van without being asked.
When Deven stops by to take Josie to see the goats, he’s in the middle of directing a family toward my table.
Josie grabs her grandmother’s hand. “Goats like stories too,” she explains seriously.
“It’s not their fault they eat the books after. ”
“You know you’re allowed to go enjoy the market,” I tell him.
“I am enjoying it.”
“You’ve spent two hours listening to children debate whether graphic novels count as reading.”
“They do.”
I look up from the stack of registration forms. “Correct answer.”
“I’ve been paying attention.”
He’s watching me with the same steady appraisal he gave the broken display rack, and the attention makes my skin prickle.
The lunch crowd thins, leaving wrappers, half-empty cups, and a display that looks as though thirty children tried shelving books at once. I hand Aiden the empty tote and point toward the bookmarks scattered beneath the chairs.
“You wanted to volunteer.”
“I don’t remember using that word.”
“I assumed, since you refused to leave.”
He stoops to gather bookmarks. “Careful with assumptions, Paige.”
“Mine are based on evidence.”
“So are mine.”
I turn toward the library van with the cash box, putting a physical stop to the conversation.
The man from the honey stand steps away from his booth as I pass. He has found four reasons to visit the library table today, none of which required a library card.
“Successful event?” he asks.
“Very. We signed up thirty-two kids.”
“Thirty-three if adults can join.”
“Are you trying to earn a sticker?”
“Depends on who gives it to me.”
I laugh. “I think we have dinosaurs and glittery stars.”
“I was hoping for your number.”
A warm palm settles against the small of my back—steady, deliberate. I don’t have to look. The touch could only belong to him.
“We’re packing up,” he says.
The man’s attention flicks toward him. “Need help?”
“We’ve got it.”
Aiden’s voice remains pleasant. His hand does not move.
The man glances between us, his smile shifting into understanding. “Guess I’ll see you around, Paige.”
“I’m at the library five days a week.”
Aiden waits until the man returns to his booth. “Subtle.”
“That was a factual statement.”
“So is the fact that he wants to take you out.”
I turn my head. “Did you put your hand on me because he was flirting?”
His fingers flex against my back, a small movement, as if he’s just now realizing they’re still there. “Looks that way.”
“You answered for me.”
“I answered his question about helping.”
“You also used ‘we.’”
“We are packing up.”
“Still factual?”
“Completely.”
I stop beside the van and face him. His hand falls away, although my back still tingles beneath my shirt.
“I didn’t need rescuing.”
“I know.”
“You didn’t think I wanted to give him my number?”
His attention cuts toward the honey stand, then returns to me. “Did you?”
“No.”
“Doesn’t make it right.”
His easy agreement steals some of my pleasure in arguing. “That’s surprisingly self-aware for a man who just marked his territory in a farmers’ market.”
His eyes narrow. “I put my hand on your back.”
“While another man asked me out.”
“Yes.”
“Possessive.”
“A flicker.”
A low, inconvenient hum starts up under my skin. “You should probably work on that.”
“Probably.”
I step closer. “I didn’t say I disliked it.”
The humor leaves his face.
His attention fixes on my mouth. Vendors and customers keep moving around us, but I focus on the few inches of air separating our bodies.
“No?” His voice turns rougher.
“No.”
“You like being claimed by men you aren’t dating?”
“That depends on the man.”
“And the claiming?”
I fight a smile. “Obviously.”
He takes the cash box from my hands and sets it inside the van. “You talk about sex like it’s a problem you’ve already solved.”
My eyebrows lift. “Excuse me?”
“You have an answer for everything. Like you’ve already worked out all the angles.”
“I read widely.”
“I’m aware.”
The edge of his mouth lifts, though the intent look in his eyes remains.
“Knowing what I like doesn’t require a field study,” I say.
“Then tell me what you like.”
“That sounds dangerously close to asking.”
“It is asking.”
His fingers still feel warm against my back.
“We’re adults. We can kiss, or hook up.” I hold his gaze. “It doesn’t have to mean anything.”
By six fifteen, I have changed my shirt three times for a man I haven’t even agreed to date.
I settle on a soft green shirt and denim shorts, then study my reflection, wondering why I bothered with mascara. I don’t have a good answer.
I pull my hair loose, immediately twist it back up, and walk into the kitchen to avoid a fourth wardrobe decision.
After a day of smiling at parents, answering questions, and keeping children from climbing the library display, my normal Friday routine should feel like a reward. I have the cabin to myself, a new romance waiting on the coffee table, and fresh pasta I picked up from one of the market vendors.
Everything is exactly how I like it. My gaze keeps drifting toward the front windows anyway.
Aiden has my address. I gave it to him with clear terms. Permission to ask again, no promise that my answer would change.
A reasonable man could decide not to drive thirty minutes into the foothills for the privilege of being rejected on my porch.
Aiden spent hours volunteering at a library booth after I said yes to one offer of help. Apparently, reason is persistent. And has excellent forearms.
I set a pot on the stove, reconsider whether I am hungry, then put it away again. The bread and cheese I bought will keep. I pour a glass of wine and carry it outside with my book.
The porch is warm from the afternoon sun. My hammock waits between two pines, but I choose the cushioned chair facing the drive and pretend the decision is a coincidence.
I open the book to the first chapter.
Three paragraphs later, I have absorbed nothing except the fact that the heroine owns a bakery.
My fingers drift across the place on my back where Aiden’s hand rested earlier. I can still feel the steady pressure of his palm, the brief flex of his fingers, and the possessiveness he admitted instead of disguising.
A flicker.
The word follows me home along with his expression after I told him adults could hook up without making it mean anything. He looked at me with controlled, unnerving intensity, as though I had offered a theory he intended to test personally.
Talking about sex has always been easy. Words are safe. I can arrange them exactly how I want them. I can tease, provoke, and state what I want without surrendering control of anything important.
Aiden makes every word feel dangerously close to action.
I turn the page without reading it.
If he comes, I still get to choose my answer.
The possibility of saying yes warms me more than the wine. One date can stay one date. One kiss doesn't claim every Friday that follows. Wanting his hands on me creates no obligation to want his name, his family calendar, or a permanent place inside the Slade orbit.
I understand the difference even if Aiden prefers certainty.
The unsettling part is how badly I want him to show up and ask.
I close the book over one finger and check the time. Six forty-eight.
The cabin settles into its familiar quiet, the only sound the wind stirring the pine branches against the roof.
I take my wine into the kitchen and turn on the porch light.
The sun is still up, but the steps are uneven. It’s just basic hospitality. Not a signal that I’m expecting company.
I set my glass beside the sink, smooth my shirt, and catch myself.
“Get a grip, Whitaker.”
My empty cabin declines to argue.
I return to the living room, pick up my book, and make it through half a page before pale light washes across the wall.
An engine slows on the gravel road. Headlights sweep across my front windows and turn into my drive.