23. Aiden
Aiden
Paige asked me to bring three rolls of blue painter’s tape, one box of thick markers, and Josie.
I brought all three, and added an extra box of markers, clear tape, scissors, batteries, and the good extension cord from the barn.
Hope and electrical tape hold the library’s extension cord together.
It does not count.
As we cross the lawn, Josie hurries to keep up. “Dad, you’re supposed to give me the purple bag.”
“It’s being safely transported. By me. That counts.”
“But I’m the official prize helper.”
“You’re also carrying six reading maps, a water bottle, and a stuffed horse.”
“Sprinkle is supervising.”
I look at the horse tucked beneath her arm. “She seems unqualified.”
“Paige said everyone gets a fresh chance.”
Paige stands beneath a canopy near the library entrance, directing two volunteers while a line of families forms at the registration table. The warm breeze presses her yellow dress against her legs, her hair twisted up and pinned with a pencil.
She sees us and smiles as a child knocks over a container of bookmarks. Paige catches it before the contents hit the grass.
“Excellent save,” I say when we reach her.
“I have highly specialized training.” Her gaze drops to the supplies in my arms. “What is all this?”
“Everything you asked for.”
“I asked for tape and markers.”
“You also need scissors.”
“We have scissors.”
“Where?”
She turns toward the registration table, pauses, then looks back at me. “Somewhere extremely secure.”
“I brought scissors.”
Paige takes the coffee balanced on top of the supply bin. Her fingers brush mine around the cup.
“One sugar,” I tell her. “And the lemon-blueberry muffin is in the paper bag beneath the batteries.”
The tension leaves her face. “I didn’t ask for coffee.”
“You’ve been here since seven.”
“You’re deciding what I need again.”
“You can refuse it.”
She takes a drink, her eyes locked on mine. “I’m choosing coffee.”
“Good choice.”
Josie pushes the purple tote toward her. “I’m your prize helper.”
“For twenty minutes,” I add. “Then she’s with me.”
Paige looks at Josie. “Your job is to hand each reader the prize they choose. You do not get to influence the selection.”
“What if they pick wrong?”
“There are no wrong prizes.”
Josie glances into the bag. “Even the pencil?”
“Especially the pencil.”
“That seems suspicious.”
I crouch beside her. “You heard the rules.”
“I can follow rules.”
Our eyes meet.
“Fresh chance,” she says.
Josie takes her position beside the prize table. I stay close enough to redirect her first attempt to explain why a dragon sticker has greater long-term value than a pencil.
Paige handles questions, registrations, and a microphone that stops working halfway through the opening announcement.
I replace the batteries before she has to ask.
When the wind lifts the reading tent, I secure it with the extra tape.
Josie comes with me to refill the cooler and restock activity sheets.
I watch Paige work, uninterrupted. She doesn't have to find Josie, feed her, or pull her away from the glitter glue. I handled it.
When the final story begins, Josie settles beside me on the grass with Sprinkle in her lap. Paige reads beneath the canopy, changing her voice for every character and pausing each time a child interrupts with an important correction.
She glances toward us twice.
Both times, her smile is quick and private, a flash of warmth meant only for me before she returns to the page.
When the event ends, I send Josie inside with one of the volunteers to wash marker from her hands. Paige catches my wrist and draws me behind the supply cart.
Her voice is low, meant only for me. “You remembered everything.”
“You gave me a list.”
“I did not put my coffee or muffin on it.”
“You always forget to eat during events.”
Her fingers slide into the front of my shirt. “You noticed.”
“I notice you.”
Paige kisses me.
Her mouth is warm and tastes faintly of coffee. I settle one hand at her waist and keep the kiss private, even though the pleased sound she makes tempts me to forget the library lawn ten feet away.
She draws back and brushes her thumb over my lower lip. “Thank you for making today easier.”
Her thanks lands deep. This is what I do: see a problem coming and handle it before it can touch the people I love. Today proves how well that works.
“I have something for you at the ranch,” I tell her.
Her eyebrows lift. “Something I asked for?”
“No.”
“That answer has a concerning history.”
“You’ll like this one.”
“What is it?”
“You’ll see after we get Josie home.”
By the time we reach the house, Josie has marker on both hands, one elbow, and a streak across her cheek that I have no idea how she managed during the drive.
I send her upstairs to change and to build Sprinkle a prize-helper office. Paige follows me into the kitchen and sets her tote on the table.
“Leave that here,” I tell her.
She looks at the bag, then at me. “Are you holding my belongings hostage?”
“You’re coming back Friday.”
“That is true.”
“So leave it.”
“I need things inside it.”
I take the key from my pocket and hold it out to her. “Then you can come get them.”
The teasing leaves her face as she looks down at my hand. I had a copy made last week, then tested it in both doors because giving Paige a key that sticks would undermine the point.
She does not reach for it immediately.
“Aiden.”
“It opens the front and back doors. You can come over whenever you want.”
“Whether you’re here or not?”
“Yes.”
“Do you plan to tell me what this is before I accept unrestricted access to your home?”
“Convenient.”
Her mouth curves. “That was almost convincing.”
I step closer and take her hand, turning it palm up before placing the key in the center. “You shouldn’t have to wait outside if I’m running late. If you finish work first, come here. If you want the porch or the kitchen or my bed, use them.”
“The generosity of that final offer is overwhelming.”
“You’ve used it before.”
“With supervision.”
“I trust you.”
Her fingers close slowly around the key. She looks down at our hands, and the simple sight of it—her hand in mine, holding the key—tightens my chest. It feels right. She’s here most Fridays, knows where I keep the coffee and which stair creaks. This house should be as open to her as it is to me.
It also means she belongs here even when I am somewhere else.
“I have more to show you,” I say.
Her eyes lift. “More? Aiden, what else have you done?”
I lead her upstairs.
Josie’s bedroom door is closed, and I can hear her explaining office policy to Sprinkle. I take Paige into my room and open the dresser drawer beneath the one holding my T-shirts.
Paige leans around me. “You gave me a drawer?”
“You bring clothes every Friday.”
“I bring one bag.”
“Now you don’t have to.”
I open the closet. I shifted my shirts and jackets to one side and added empty hangers along the other end of the rod. Paige runs one finger over them, her expression caught somewhere between amusement and disbelief.
“How much wardrobe space do you think I require for one night?”
“You can leave whatever you want.”
“I could hang six identical black dresses in here.”
“You own three.”
She looks over at me. “Why do you know that?”
“You wore all of them.”
“Of course you remember my dress inventory.”
“I remember what I took off you.”
Color rises along her throat. “That explains two. You did not take off the third.”
“I intend to.”
Her laugh is quiet as she catches my shirt and pulls me toward her. The kiss begins soft, almost careful. Then her hand slides into my hair, and she presses closer. I wrap an arm around her waist and let her decide how long it lasts.
When she eases away, there’s a bright, unguarded look in her eyes.
“No man has ever made room for me this deliberately,” she says.
The admission settles something deep in my chest. “They should have.”
“I probably wouldn’t have let them.”
“But you’ll let me?”
She studies me before glancing at the drawer again. “I’m holding the key, aren’t I?”
It’s as good as a yes.
I take her into the bathroom and show her the empty shelf beside mine, then the cleared section beneath the sink.
She folds her arms. “Did you conduct an audit?”
“You make two trips to your car every Friday.”
“You may be the first man to turn organizational efficiency into foreplay.”
“I made room for your things. You kissed me.”
“Strong preliminary findings.”
I set my hands at her waist and draw her against me. “Leave it all here. Your dresses, the ridiculous number of bottles for the counter, the books you can’t sleep without.”
“My books travel for emotional support.”
“They can stay here and provide it.”
Her smile softens, though her gaze flicks toward the bedroom where her tote still waits downstairs.
“You should never have to pack for Fridays again,” I tell her.
She goes still beneath my hands.
Her gaze drops to the key in her palm, her fingers tightening around it.
“This is a lot.” Her voice is quiet.
“It’s a drawer, closet space, and a key.”
“Yes. Exactly.”
I wait for her to hand it back.
Instead, she rises onto her toes and kisses me once, her lips warm and lingering against mine.
She says the words against my mouth. “Thank you.”
I hear the emotion in her voice and pull her closer. Paige still carries everything she needs in one bag each Friday. Now she has a key and a place here that will always be ready for her.
To me, that feels like an answer.
We end up on the porch while Josie makes a sign for Sprinkle’s office and Paige drinks the coffee she abandoned during the library event. She has tucked the new key into the front pocket of her dress. I can see its outline through the fabric.
I like knowing it is there.
My phone rings against the table. Mom’s name fills the screen.
“Your mother has suspicious timing,” Paige says.
“She developed it when she gave birth to three children at once.”
I answer and put her on speaker. “What do you need?”
“Hello to you too,” Mom says. “I need to confirm the branch cookout before your father invites half the county.”
“He knows half the county.”
“He believes that’s a reason to feed all of them.”
Paige smiles over the rim of her cup.
“Third Saturday in August,” Mom continues. “Five o’clock. Just our branch unless your father loses control of the guest list.”
“We’ll be there.”
Paige lowers her coffee.
Mom makes a pleased sound. “Good. Adrienne already said yes, and Axel is checking with Sadie. I’m also trying to settle the October bonfire while everyone still has their calendars open. Will Paige come to that too?”
“Yes.”
“Aiden,” Paige says.
Her voice stays light, but I look at her.
She lifts one eyebrow. “You may want to consult the woman whose calendar you’re volunteering.”
“I thought you were free.”
“You did not ask.”
Mom goes quiet on the other end of the call.
I sit back in my chair. “You’re right. Sorry.”
Paige’s expression softens, though she does not wave it away.
“Paige,” Mom says, “would you like to come to the cookout?”
“Thank you for asking me directly, Deven.”
The words are warm. The point beneath them is clear enough that my mother releases a quiet laugh.
“I raised him with manners,” Mom says. “What he does with them as an adult is his responsibility.”
“Apparently he stores them beside the library scissors.”
“I knew I liked you.”
“You’ve said that before.”
“I like you more now.”
I reach over and hook two fingers around Paige’s ankle. “Are you coming?”
“I need to check the library calendar, but probably.”
“Probably?”
Her foot nudges my thigh. “It’s the only answer I have until I look.”
“What about October?”
“That is two months away.”
“Yes. That’s generally how calendars work.”
“And it’s a long time from now.”
Mom clears her throat. “I’ll mark Paige as a maybe for both and let you two conduct whatever negotiation is happening on that porch.”
“There’s no negotiation,” I say.
Paige looks at me. “Interesting.”
“Goodbye, sweetheart,” Mom says, far too amused. “Paige, I’ll text you the dates.”
“Perfect. Thank you.”
The call ends.
I keep my hand around Paige’s ankle. “Do you already have plans?”
“I don’t know. I have to check.”
“If it’s a library event, tell me. I’ll help.”
Her mouth curves. “That’s sweet.”
“And if it isn’t?”
“I still might have plans.”
“Then we’ll figure it out.”
She studies me, then sets her coffee on the table. “You understand I can also decide I don’t want to go.”
“Don’t you want to?”
“I haven’t decided.”
“It’s dinner at my parents’ house.”
“With your family.”
“You’ve survived them before.”
“I have even enjoyed them.”
“So what’s holding you back?”
“I didn’t say there was a problem. I said you should ask before answering for me.”
She says it calmly, without anger, and I hear the correction, but I also hear the unspoken ‘yes’—that she’ll come once she checks her calendar.
“I’m sorry,” I say again. “I assumed… we’re a ‘we.’ That family events are for us.”
She doesn’t look away. “I know.”
I slide my hand higher along her calf and draw her foot into my lap. “Next time I’ll ask.”
“Before or after you tell everyone yes?”
“Before.”
“Good.”
She leans across the space between our chairs and kisses me. It is brief, affectionate, and easy. The tension I didn’t know I was holding in my shoulders releases. When she settles back, her toes press into my thigh.
“Maybe on the cookout,” she says. “A genuine maybe.”
“I’ll take it.”
“And October is a distant theoretical concept.”
“We’ll revisit October.”
“Once it becomes a real month.”
I run my thumb over the arch of her foot and look toward the pocket holding the key to my house. She accepted the key, and the space I made for her. I think of how she comes apart in my hands, how she falls asleep against me like there is nowhere else she needs to be.
I understand that she wants me to ask. I do not understand why the question feels heavier to her than the key in her pocket.