14. Paige
Paige
Aiden holds up two copies of the same romance novel and studies the covers.
“These are identical.”
“They have different sprayed edges.”
He turns both books sideways. One has pink flowers along the pages. The other has tiny silver stars. “The words are the same?”
“Yes.”
“And people need both?”
Three women in the signing line turn in unison. One lowers her glasses. Another puts a hand on her hip. All three are staring at him.
I take one book from his hand before the visiting author loses sales. “Collectors appreciate choices.”
“One woman bought four.”
“Those were alternate covers.”
Aiden looks at the line, then at the display of special editions behind me. “I’m beginning to think I’m the only unreasonable one here.”
“You walked into a romance event and questioned special editions. This is a predictable consequence.”
I add the book to the stack waiting for signatures. “You’re doing remarkably well for a man who spent the first twenty minutes asking why everyone brought tabs.”
“They color-code emotional damage.”
“And spice.”
“That woman has a system involving five shades of red.”
“Her organization impressed you.”
“Her explanation concerned me.”
A laugh escapes before I can stop it, and I turn to check the signing table.
The author has water, fresh pens, and another stack ready beneath her elbow.
Aiden noticed the first pen dying before I did and replaced it without interrupting her conversation.
He has also moved chairs, directed readers to the register, and learned not to call a discreet cover “the version people hide from their husbands.”
I mentioned tonight’s event while we were texting about the book he borrowed. I never asked him to come. He arrived before the doors opened and said I looked like I needed someone tall.
“Can I help with anything else?” he asks.
“You can take those preorder forms to the front desk.”
He collects them and heads through the crowded bookstore. Women track him between shelves. Aiden either does not notice or has decided I am the safer person to look at, because his attention returns to me as soon as he reaches the desk.
I catch the small, private smile on my face and don’t try to hide it.
When he comes back, I hand him a roll of signing stickers. “Put one inside each book on that cart.”
“What do they say?”
“Romance readers do it better.”
His gaze settles on me. “Accurate.”
The drag of his fingers sends heat across my skin. He holds on just long enough for the touch to feel like a secret, a claim made in a room full of people.
Then a reader asks where the restroom is, and the moment dissolves.
Forty minutes later, the last customer leaves with a signed hardcover hugged to her chest. The author thanks us, and I collapse the check-in sign while Aiden packs the remaining paperbacks.
I lean against the empty table. “You liked this.”
“I liked watching you run it.”
“That wasn’t my question.”
“The readers are intense.”
“They would say committed.”
“One tried to convince me groveling should last at least three chapters.”
“She was correct.”
“I suspected you would take her side.”
“You made fun of discreet covers. Your judgment is compromised.”
“And yet I stayed.”
I glance at him. “You did.”
Aiden sets the final stack into a box. “I wanted to.”
He keeps showing up in the quiet parts of my life, asking what needs to be carried and learning why a different cover matters.
He treats the things I enjoy as if they have their own value, separate from me.
The thought settles, warm and unfamiliar.
I fold the tablecloth, dropping it into a storage bin. “Thank you for staying.”
“I wanted to.” He waits until I meet his eyes. “Come to dinner at my parents’ house Saturday.”
The request lands in the quiet space between us, and I straighten.
“How many people?”
“Just the core group. Mom, Dad, Axel and Sadie, Adrienne and Scotty. And the kids, of course—Josie, Poppy, and Silas.”
“That is ten people plus a toddler.”
“It’s small for my family.”
“That does not make it small.”
Aiden lifts the box. “Is that a no?”
“I have a book waiting at the cabin and no desire to explain my reading habits to your siblings over dinner.”
“You’ve met Axel and Adrienne.”
“I survived Axel and Adrienne.”
“They like you.”
“That increases the danger.”
Usually, that earns at least a reluctant smile. Tonight, his expression stays level.
I close the storage bin. “You came here because you wanted to.”
“I did.”
“I’m glad you did. That doesn’t mean you earn a family dinner in exchange.”
“I didn’t say this was an exchange.”
“You asked while carrying a box for my event.”
“So when was I supposed to ask? Before I picked up the box, or after I put it down?”
His tone stays quiet, but an edge has crept into it.
I reach for the box. “I can take that.”
Aiden keeps hold of it.
“When are you going to come to my side of the fence, Paige?”
The question follows us through the bookstore while Aiden carries the last box and I balance the storage bin against my hip. Behind us, someone switches off the lights above the signing table. The storefront stays bright, throwing our reflections across the glass as we step outside.
Two readers cross our path with signed hardcovers clutched to their chests. I wait for them to pass, the bin digging into my hip. The pavement still holds the day’s heat, but the air has started to cool.
I set the bin on my rear bumper to find my keys. “I’m not ashamed of you.”
Aiden shifts the box. “That wasn’t what I asked.”
“It’s where this is going.”
“Because I’m trying to understand why I can spend an evening learning the difference between sprayed edges and alternate covers, but dinner with my parents is too much to consider.”
I unlock the SUV and lift the hatch. “You chose to come tonight.”
“And I keep choosing to show up.”
The certainty in his voice stops my next argument.
Aiden slides the box beside the folded tablecloth and leftover signing supplies. Cardboard scrapes against cardboard before he steps back.
“I invited you to the ranch last weekend,” he says. “Just us. I changed the plan because I listened when you said the crowds were the problem.”
“And I went.”
“For one morning.”
“I’m sorry. Was there a minimum attendance requirement?”
He goes very still. “That’s exactly what I mean. Every time I ask you to be part of my life, you act like I slipped a contract beneath the invitation.”
“Your invitations used to come with half the Slade family attached.”
“They did.”
“You kept asking me to walk into rooms full of people when I told you I wanted time with you.”
“I heard you.”
“Eventually.”
“Yes, eventually.” He pushes away from the SUV. “Then I brought dinner to your cabin. I learned your trails. I sat in a hammock built for one while you kept reading. I read the romance novel you handed me, spent an afternoon at the library, and came here tonight because these things matter to you.”
“You make that sound like a burden.”
“They aren’t.” His voice drops. “That’s the point. I wanted to know your life because I want to know you.”
I pick up the storage bin because I need somewhere to put my hands. The plastic edge bites into my palms.
Aiden steps closer, though he leaves space between us. “I know how you take your coffee. I know which days you close the library, what you read when you’re tired, and the trail you use when you need to think. You know my family is large and my house is on a ranch.”
“That’s a skewed comparison.”
“And it’s not fair that you act like I’m trying to steal something every time I just ask you to show up.”
“I’m protecting a life I like.”
“I know, Paige. I like your life too.” Frustration roughens his voice. “I’m asking whether there is room in it for the parts of me that don’t fit at your cabin.”
I hate how exposed that makes me feel because he has a point. I set the bin down harder than necessary.
“Your family doesn’t do anything halfway. One dinner becomes Sunday breakfast, then a birthday, then a cookout with cousins I’ve never met. Everyone starts assuming I’ll be there before anyone remembers to ask.”
“Then I tell them to ask.”
“And if I say no?”
“Then you’d stay home and read your book.”
“You say that now.”
His expression hardens. “You keep asking me to prove I’ll respect choices you haven’t given me the chance to respect.”
The last reader pulls out of the lot. Headlights sweep across the cooling pavement and disappear.
“When you ask me to come to something,” I say, “you make it sound as though saying no means I’m rejecting you.”
Aiden goes quiet. Inside the bookstore, an employee drags a chair away from the signing table, the scrape faint through the glass.
He lets out a slow breath. “That’s fair. I’ve done that.”
I let out a breath I didn’t realize I was holding.
“But you also decide what every invitation means before I finish making it.”
“I need time to decide what I’m comfortable with.”
“I’m not asking you to decide tonight.”
“But the timing made it feel transactional.”
“And you decided that made the help transactional.” He steps back. “It wasn’t.”
“I believe you.”
“I’m not sure you do.”
His truck sits beside mine beneath the storefront lights. Usually, this is where he reaches for me. One hand on my waist. A kiss that starts warm and ends with me wondering how quickly we can reach the cabin.
Tonight, he takes out his keys.
He pockets his keys, a final, quiet gesture. “I’m going home.”
I want to ask him to follow me. The invitation catches behind everything we still haven’t settled.
“Okay.”
He opens his door. “Good night, Paige.”
“Good night.”
He gets into his truck without kissing me. The door shuts, and I notice I’ve been watching his hands instead of his face.
I load the storage bin and lower my hatch.
Anger is still humming under my skin as I pull away, but it’s the space where his kiss should have been that aches.
The book waiting on my nightstand has a shirtless duke, a fake engagement, and enough unresolved sexual tension to hold my attention under almost any circumstances.
Tonight, I read the same paragraph four times.
I close it and stare at the cabin I have defended so fiercely.
My life is quiet because I chose it. Every part of this room is mine: the books stacked beneath the window, the mug beside my chair, the blanket I bought because no one else’s opinion mattered. I love knowing Friday can belong to me without an explanation.
Aiden understands that. He has learned when to come closer and when to let me keep reading. He brings dinner without assuming he will stay, listens when I talk about work, and accepts that a hammock built for one does not magically become larger because he has broad shoulders.
He has entered my life without asking me to rearrange it.
I keep treating that as proof he should be satisfied staying here.
The realization is irritating enough that I get up and carry my mug to the sink. I rinse it, wipe the counter, and straighten a dish towel that is already straight.
I have always valued being able to choose for myself. Lately, I have been using that freedom to avoid anything that scares me.
Aiden’s family does. They are loud, close, and accustomed to sharing everything. They will learn my birthday, remember my coffee order, and assume I belong in group pictures before I know where to stand. I could disappear inside that much affection.
Aiden heard that fear and changed how he pursued me. I heard his fear tonight and told him he was wrong to have one.
I pick up my phone rather than build a more flattering version of events.
He answers on the third ring. “Paige.”
His voice is cautious. That might be worse than anger.
“Are you home?”
“Just got here.”
“Is Josie awake?”
“She’s asleep at my parents’ house. Mom kept her because I was helping you tonight.”
And there it is: another piece of his effort I accepted without asking what it required of him.
“I didn’t know that.”
“I know you didn’t.”
I sit on the arm of the couch. “Is Saturday dinner still happening?”
A pause stretches between us.
“Yes.”
“With the same people?”
“Yes.”
“Your parents, your siblings, their partners, the kids, and no surprise cousins wandering in because they smelled food from three ranches away?”
His breath changes, and I can hear the smile he is trying to hide. “That is a risk at any Slade gathering.”
“Aiden.”
“I’ll keep the doors locked.”
“That seems like a fire hazard.”
“I’ll tell Dad the guest list is fixed.”
I press my lips together. “I am saying yes. Do not make me regret it by inviting thirty cousins.”
“You’re coming?”
The care in his question dismantles every defense I prepared.
“I’m coming because I want to know the people who matter to you. That doesn’t mean I was wrong. You kept inviting your entire family on our dates.”
“You weren’t wrong.” His answer comes without argument. “I wanted you in my life, and I kept trying to make it happen according to my schedule.”
“I also kept expecting you to fit inside mine.”
“We haven’t made it easy on each other.”
“I prefer discerning.”
“Of course you do.”
The warmth in his voice is a balm against the ache left by the parking lot, though it doesn’t erase the argument. I’m glad. A simple apology would be easier than learning from this.
“I need you to ask me,” I say. “Even when you think you know the answer.”
“Then I’ll keep asking.”
“And if I say no to the next thing, you don’t get to treat this yes like it expired.”
“And I’ll respect the answer.”
I look toward the abandoned book. “You should know I’m bringing something to read in case your siblings become unbearable.”
“They will become unbearable.”
“Then I appreciate your honesty.”
His low laugh moves through the phone, familiar and intimate. I miss the kiss we didn’t have, but asking him here would be another retreat, another choice made where I control every variable.
“Thank you.”
Two simple words, spoken with enough feeling to make my throat tighten.
“I’m agreeing to dinner, Aiden, not signing over the deed to my cabin.”
“I know exactly what you’re agreeing to.”
The relief in his voice tells me he understood what I needed him to hear.
And in the quiet that followed, a new thought settled, clear and simple. I chose him.