34. Paige #2
I can’t hear the response, but his mouth flattens.
“What did Ethan say?”
Another pause.
“That sounds like him.”
Aiden listens while I collect the abandoned plates and place them on the desk. His posture grows more rigid with every answer he receives.
“Who posted it?” he asks. “And where’s the rest of the video?”
Whatever Wyatt says makes him mutter a curse.
“You’re bringing Ethan back to Colorado?”
My attention snaps fully to him.
“For how long?”
He glances at me, then turns toward the porch. “And he agreed to that?”
The laugh that leaves him contains no amusement.
“Yeah. That sounds like him too.”
Aiden ends the call and immediately starts typing something into his phone.
“Is Ethan in trouble?”
“He’s a Slade caught on camera threatening someone. By morning, we’ll all be in trouble.” He scrolls through the results on his screen. “Two sponsors have already called Wyatt, and someone sent the video to every local news station between Dallas and Denver.”
“What happened before the recording started?”
“Ethan claims that man threatened one of the ranch hands and then tried to make him take responsibility for something he didn’t do.”
“Do you believe him?”
“With Ethan, the part before the camera started usually matters most.”
His thumb moves over the screen again.
“Wyatt hired a crisis PR firm,” he says. “Apparently, they’re the best in the country.”
“That sounds expensive.”
“They handle politicians, celebrities, companies caught doing things they definitely did, and rich families who prefer pretending they don’t have problems.”
“That last one seems relevant.”
“It’s practically their specialty.”
Aiden turns his phone toward me. The firm’s website is as polished as I’d expect from people paid to make disasters disappear.
There are photographs of sleek offices, serious-looking people in expensive clothes, and a list of clients identified only by industries and outcomes.
Every headline promises discretion, strategy, and control.
Aiden opens the profile of the woman Wyatt hired to handle Ethan personally.
She’s beautiful in a precise, intimidating way. Her dark hair is perfectly smooth, her expression composed, and her tailored black suit probably costs more than everything I’m wearing. She looks like a woman who prepares for every possible outcome and has never willingly left anything to chance.
Aiden stares at her picture.
Then he laughs.
“What?”
“Oh, shit.”
“What?”
He hands me the phone. “Ethan is going to love this.”
“You got that from one photograph?”
“I spent years working beside him. That woman looks like she schedules when she blinks.”
“And Ethan?”
“Once entered a rodeo because someone told him he couldn’t rope a steer wearing another man’s boots.”
I look between the woman’s controlled expression and the frozen image of Ethan pinning someone against a truck.
“This seems promising.”
“The firm is sending her to Colorado tomorrow. Ethan’s flight lands an hour before hers.”
“Does he know she’s coming?”
“He knows someone is meeting him for PR training.” Aiden picks up the plates. “I doubt Wyatt showed him the picture.”
“Why not?”
“Because then Ethan might miss his flight on purpose.”
I follow him toward the house. “Or arrive early.”
Aiden considers that.
“Yeah.” His smile returns. “That’s probably more likely.”
Aiden helps me carry the dishes inside and puts each one where I direct. Once we’ve restored the room, he picks the blue star from the desk and presses it onto my chest.
“Very official,” he says.
“I earned it.”
“You did.”
His fingers linger near the neckline of my dress. Heat follows the slow drag of his gaze, but he steps back instead of deciding what comes after the party.
“Where do you want to spend the rest of Friday?”
“The cabin,” I say.
Aiden’s gaze moves from the blue star on my dress to my face. “Your cabin?”
“Yes. Is there another one you’ve been visiting on Fridays?”
“None I’m willing to admit to while you’re holding a plate.”
I set the plate on the desk. “Good answer.”
His hands find my waist, the touch familiar but questioning. “Are we taking one truck?”
The question hangs in the air, heavier than it should be. He’s asking if tonight ends with one set of keys.
“Mine,” I say. “You drove Josie here.”
“Josie went home with my parents.”
“Then mine anyway.”
His smile comes slowly. “Yes, ma’am.”
Twenty-five minutes later, Aiden carries the leftover cupcakes into my cabin while I lock the front door behind us.
The porch light spills through the windows.
My book remains facedown beside the couch where I left it yesterday, and the blanket over the arm still holds the shape of a life that belonged entirely to me before he started showing up on Fridays.
It still belongs to me.
Now he knows where the plates go.
Aiden puts the cupcakes in the refrigerator without asking. “I’m learning.”
“You’ve visited enough to qualify for basic kitchen privileges.”
“Does that come with bedroom access?”
“That depends on your performance review.”
He turns and leans against the counter. His sleeves are pushed to his forearms, and his hair is a mess where Silas grabbed it. A faint streak of blue frosting marks his wrist.
This man helped clean my library, waited outside my locked door, rode home with me in my truck, and still manages to look like every indecent passage I have ever underlined.
“I want to spend more nights at the ranch,” I tell him.
The humor leaves his expression, replaced by a careful stillness, though he stays exactly where he is.
“I’m listening.”
“Two next week. One work night and Saturday.”
“Okay.”
“I’m keeping the cabin.”
“Okay.”
“And Fridays here.”
“Okay.”
I fold my arms. “You’re suspiciously agreeable.”
“You’re telling me what you want. I’m trying a revolutionary new strategy where I believe you.”
I smile. “I also need solo hours when I’m at the ranch. Sometimes several of them.”
“You have a door with a lock.”
“And you won’t stand outside worrying?”
“I’ll worry.” He pushes away from the counter and stops in front of me. “I won’t make the worry your responsibility.”
“I might move in someday,” I say. “I can’t promise when.”
“You don’t have to.”
“No proposed schedule?”
“I have one in my head.”
“Of course you do.”
“It’s color-coded.”
I laugh, and his mouth brushes mine.
The kiss begins softly, almost patient. Then I curl my fingers into his shirt and pull him closer.
“I’m not finished.”
Aiden lifts his head. His eyes are already dark.
“Keep talking.”
“I want a drawer.”
“At the ranch?”
“Yes.”
“You can have six.”
“One.”
“Three.”
“You’re bargaining.”
“I’m celebrating.”
My hands find the warm skin beneath his shirt. “One drawer. Two nights. Fridays here. We adjust if either of us hates it.”
His palms slide down my back, cupping the curve of my hip through my dress. “I’m going to hate waking up with you in my bed.”
“You’re very convincing.”
“I’ll suffer.”
His mouth returns to mine, rougher now. His mouth tastes of lemonade and frosting as he backs me toward the bedroom. I catch his lower lip between my teeth when we reach the doorway.
Aiden groans. “Tell me that performance review is going well.”
“You’re meeting expectations.”
“Cruel woman.”
He turns me, draws my back against his chest, and slowly lowers the zipper of my dress. His lips follow the path he exposes, touching my shoulder, then the hollow at the base of my neck.
“You chose me tonight,” he says against my skin.
“I chose my cabin.”
“With me in it.”
“Yes.”
“And next week you’re choosing my bed.”
“Twice.”
His hand slips beneath the loosened fabric and spreads over my stomach. “I like your plan.”
“I thought you might.”
“I like that you made it.”
It sinks in then. He doesn’t just want the plan; he wants that it’s mine.
I turn inside his arms. “You’re mine, Aiden.”
I used to hear surrender in the word mine. Now it is a claim we both choose, one I can make because I remain free.
His forehead touches mine. “Always because you choose me.”
“I choose you.”
He kisses me until the back of my knees hits the mattress. He follows me down, laughing when my elbow knocks a paperback from the nightstand.
“You’re losing to fiction again,” I tell him.
Aiden braces himself above me. “That book has never made you come.”
“An unfair advantage.”
“One I intend to keep.”
His hand glides beneath my dress, and any smart reply I had vanishes.
The romance novels on my shelves always end before this part—before the negotiation over work nights, quiet hours, and whose family ate the last cupcake.
Real life has locked doors and uncomfortable conversations.
It has the risk of losing someone I know I could survive without, but never, ever want to.
Aiden’s mouth closes over mine as I pull him closer. Real life is messier than fiction, hotter too, and so much better.