17. Aiden
Aiden
The smell of coffee and toast fills Paige’s kitchen.
In the living room, morning light pools around the armchair where Paige sits reading, her bare legs tucked beneath her.
Josie is stretched on the rug, lost in her own book.
It’s been six minutes since either of them spoke—I know because the ticking clock above the stove is the only sound besides the sizzle of eggs and the soft turn of a page.
Josie hums a single, wandering note, and Paige’s hand appears over the side of the chair, tapping the top of her book twice without a word.
Paige doesn’t look up from her page. “You’re singing the same four words again.”
“I only remember four.”
“Ah. The four-word version.”
Josie goes back to reading. Her foot rests against the side of Paige’s chair, and Paige leaves it there.
Paige lets my daughter occupy herself without turning their morning into an activity or a test of how well she handles a six-year-old. She reads her book. Josie reads hers. They share the patch of morning sun with no need to perform for each other.
I turn off the burner before I ruin breakfast.
Paige lifts her gaze. Her hair is loose and sleep-mussed, and the collar of her faded library T-shirt slips toward one shoulder. I spent part of last night with my mouth on that skin. This morning, that familiar challenge in her eyes still lands the same way.
“Are the eggs in danger?” she asks.
“They’re fine.”
“You’ve been staring at that skillet for a solid minute.”
“I wasn’t looking at the eggs.”
Her eyes hold mine across the room, warm with the memory we cannot discuss in front of Josie.
I love her.
The realization lands the way I know things when I’m working cattle or judging how much time remains before a storm reaches us.
Josie’s affection makes the picture in front of me sweeter.
My love begins with Paige herself. She protects the life she built and still chooses to open the door for us.
She challenges me when certainty turns into arrogance, catches the one detail I miss, laughs with her whole face, and refuses to become easier merely to make anyone else more comfortable.
I love her because she is completely herself beside us.
Once I can name what I want, I build toward it. I make plans, arrange schedules, and trust solid walls. The instinct rises now as clearly as the love itself. I want her books mixed with mine, her coffee in my kitchen, and her quiet woven through mornings at the ranch.
Paige asked me to keep asking. I can want that future without treating it as decided.
The difference feels simple while I stand in her kitchen. Wanting belongs to me. The answer still belongs to her.
“Daddy,” Josie says, “the eggs smell ready.”
“They’ve been ready.” Paige closes her paperback around one finger. “Your father is wrestling with the existential purpose of these eggs.”
“I’m making food.”
“Very bravely.”
I carry three plates to the small table. Paige passes close enough to slide her palm over my back as she takes her seat, the touch lingering at my waist.
“Good morning,” she says.
“It is now.”
Her mouth curves. “Were you waiting to see how the eggs turned out?”
I lean down and kiss her. It stays brief because Josie is climbing into the chair across from us, though Paige catches my shirt and pulls me back for one more before letting go.
“No kissing during breakfast,” Josie says.
“You said after dinner last time,” Paige says.
“Breakfast needs a rule too.”
“Put it in writing,” I tell her.
She takes a bite of toast. “I’m eating.”
We finish breakfast with Josie explaining the plot of her book so thoroughly that reading it feels unnecessary. Paige asks two questions, corrects one impossible bit of dragon anatomy, and steals every strawberry from my plate.
Her books still cover every available surface, one mug sits in the drying rack, and her hammock hangs beyond the porch doors. Our cooler and Josie’s purple backpack are temporary intrusions in a space that remains completely hers.
An hour later, Josie carries her backpack to the truck while I load the cooler. Paige follows me onto the porch with a paperback held against her chest.
“Since you’ve spent two weeks insulting my fictional hero’s work ethic, I have another recommendation.”
She hands me the book. The cover shows a man in a dark suit standing in front of a hotel.
“Does this one have a job?” I ask.
“He owns the hotel.”
“Inherited?”
“Built it.”
I scan the back cover. “Already more promising.”
“He also understands instructions.”
My eyes lift to hers. “You marked another chapter?”
“You’ll have to read it properly and find out.” She taps the cover. “This one is my favorite, so your usual complaints will require better research.”
I tuck the book beneath my arm and draw her close with my free hand. “I’m always thorough.”
A slow smile touches Paige’s mouth, one that’s just for me. “That is exactly why I’m recommending it.”
By Tuesday afternoon, the old office has a new roof vent, three missing floorboards, and an electrician’s warning that the old wiring could have burned the place down.
I consider that progress.
Axel steps through the open doorway, two bottles of water in hand, and surveys the section of flooring I removed.
“Taking your personality out on the floorboards, I see.”
“The boards were rotted underneath.”
“I was referring to your personality.”
I take the water he offers and set it on the floor beside the built-in desk. “The damage came from the window leaking. I replaced the flashing this morning.”
“So the building is safe from rain, and now you’re protecting it from feet.”
“And electrical fires.”
He glances at the exposed wiring. “What are you planning to use this for?”
“Something.”
“That explains the six-foot level, three contractor estimates, and lumber delivery.”
“Dad has been saying we should deal with this place for years.”
“Dad says that about every building on the ranch. He doesn’t usually find you sanding a desk in the middle of a workday.”
I drag the sandpaper over another scar in the wood. Dust gathers beneath my palm, revealing the darker grain Paige pointed out when we came in here.
I remember her standing beneath the mountain-facing window, a half-smile on her face as she talked about the good light and what a person could do with a room like this.
I look toward the empty wall and fill in the rest myself.
Floor-to-ceiling shelves. A reading chair in the corner where the afternoon sun reaches. A lamp for cloudy days, a table wide enough for her coffee. She’d made an observation; I was already drafting blueprints.
“You’re doing it again,” Axel says.
I stop sanding. “Doing what?”
“Leaving the conversation.”
“I’m working.”
“You went somewhere else the second I asked what this room is for.”
“It needs repairs regardless of how we use it.”
“That sounds convincing.”
“It’s true.”
The electrician returns tomorrow. The replacement flooring arrives Friday. I ordered extra insulation because the room will be useless after October if I leave the walls as they are.
Those are repairs. Knowing where Paige’s desk should sit is unrelated to the leaking window.
Axel crouches beside the missing boards and tests the nearest joist. “This one’s solid. You can brace the next two instead of replacing them.”
“That’s what I thought.”
He takes the pry bar and works the damaged board loose while I clear the nails. We fall into the familiar rhythm of silent, shared work.
“What did Paige say?” he asks.
“About the joists?”
“The building.”
“She said it has good light.”
He looks at both windows. “It does.”
“And a mountain view.”
“That too.”
“She thought it could be useful.”
His mouth shifts. “Useful for what?”
A vague answer would end this. I glance at the wall again.
“A private library.”
Axel slowly sets down the pry bar.
“It was a comment,” I say. “She wasn’t asking me to build one.”
“Yet you’re rewiring the place.”
“It could burn down.”
“Refinishing the floor.”
“It’s damaged.”
“Fixing a roof you told Dad was sound two months ago.”
“The roof is sound. The flashing wasn’t.”
He nods with exaggerated seriousness. “Critical distinction.”
I take the pry bar from him. “Do you want to help or supervise?”
“I’m trying to understand the scope of the project.”
“The scope is making an unused building usable.”
“For the general public?”
“This is private property.”
“For the family?”
I drive the bar beneath the next board. “For the ranch.”
Axel laughs once. “You’ve never been good at lying.”
“I’m not lying.”
“No, you’re arranging the truth until it agrees with you.”
The board comes free with a sharp crack. I carry it outside and add it to the pile, ignoring him.
From the doorway, the office still looks neglected. Bare studs show where I removed the damaged paneling, a fine grit coats every surface, and half the floor needs sanding.
I can already see Paige in a chair beside that window, one leg tucked under her, so lost in a book she doesn’t hear me walk in.
The picture feels inevitable.
Axel leans against the doorframe. His expression has lost most of its amusement.
“Does Paige know you’re building her a room?”
Paige has no idea about the room.
Three days later, she also has no idea I’m standing at the counter of the bookstore with her paperback in one hand and a screenshot of an out-of-print hardcover’s listing on my phone.
The woman behind the register studies both, then looks at me. “You want that exact edition?”
“Yes.”
“The signed anniversary hardcover with illustrated endpapers, gold foil, and digitally printed edges.”
“That’s what the listing says.”
“It was a limited release.”
“I know.”
“And it sold out eight months ago.”
“I know that too.”
She leans one hip against the counter. “So what do you want from me?”
“How to get one.”
Her mouth twitches. “Money, patience, and a willingness to lose an online auction to someone named DarkRomanceQueen.”
“I have the first two.”
“Everyone thinks that until the bidding starts.”
I glance toward the special-edition display Paige helped manage during the author event. I understand sprayed edges now. I know what alternate covers are, why signed tip-in pages count, and that a discreet edition can contain the filthiest book in the room.
None of that prepared me for subscription-box exclusives, resale groups, or adults trading romance novels with the intensity of a cattle sale.
The bookseller takes Paige’s paperback and checks the copyright page. “There’s another anniversary edition. It isn’t signed, but it has the bonus epilogue and the same artwork.”
“The edges are different.”
She looks up. “You noticed.”
“The skyline is silver instead of gold.”
“Very good.”
“Paige likes the gold.”
I think of her paperback—the foil on the cover, the spine, even the tabs she used to mark pages were all shades of gold or yellow.
The bookseller turns the paperback over. “Is this her favorite?”
“She said it was.”
“Then she may already own the special edition.”
“I’ve seen her shelves.”
“All of them?”
“Yes.”
Her brows rise.
“She has books in every room.”
“That sounds less alarming than the way you answered.”
“There’s one hardcover from this author, and it’s blue. This edition has a black case.”
“You’ve been studying.”
“I pay attention.”
I read the entire book after Paige handed it to me. The hotel owner was less useless than the heroes in the other books she has recommended, though he spent too much time deciding what the heroine needed without asking her.
That part felt uncomfortably familiar.
The scene Paige marked felt different.
The heroine gives one clear instruction, and the hero follows it without changing the terms, rushing her, or taking over. He waits until she asks for more. She controls the scene because she decides exactly what to hand him.
Paige marked three pages.
I have read them enough times to know every place the spine bends.
The bookseller turns back to her computer. “Wait. We had a gold-edged copy transferred here for an event that was canceled.”
Her fingers move across the keyboard. She studies the screen, then disappears into the back room.
She returns carrying a sealed hardcover wrapped in protective plastic. The gold skyline shines across the edges when she tilts it beneath the light.
“It looks like this one is signed, too,” she says, pointing to the title page. “Everything matches.”
I compare it to the photograph. Black cover beneath the jacket. Gold foil. Illustrated endpapers. Bonus epilogue.
“This is the one.”
“Do you want a gift receipt?”
“No.”
“What if she already has it?”
“She doesn’t.”
“What if she prefers the silver?”
“She doesn’t.”
The bookseller smiles as she rings it up. “You’re either very confident or about to learn an important lesson about gift receipts.”
I hand her my card. “She’ll tell me if I’m wrong.”
“And you’ll survive that?”
“I’m getting better at it.”
She places the book in a bag with more tissue paper than seems necessary. “For what it’s worth, getting the exact edition is the part that matters. It shows you were paying attention.”
I pause. “You know Paige?”
“No. You said she likes the gold, owns the regular paperback, and doesn’t have this one. That makes it specific.” She passes me the bag. “Details like that matter. You’d be surprised how many people don’t notice.”
I chose it because the details belong to her, which makes the work feel less like shopping and more like proof that I know her.
I carry the book to my truck and set it carefully on the passenger seat beside Paige’s worn copy.
Friday night, I’ll put the special edition on her pillow. Then I’ll open the paperback to the pages she marked and ask her to show me what fiction offers that I haven’t delivered.
Whatever she names, I intend to follow every instruction.