Chapter 16 Aiden
Aiden
Dee Dee’s words hang in the air. “Don’t mess it up, handsome. Trust me, this girl’s a keeper.” Her sneakers squeak against the linoleum as she moves to the next booth.
It has been so easy sitting here chatting with her, forgetting what I’m actually supposed to be doing—exposing her true nature.
Our conversation flows so effortlessly, no strain or awkward silences.
She’s relaxed, like she’s in her natural element, as she fires question after question at me.
There’s this calm air between us; it makes me want to share all my secrets, every unpolished thought I usually keep locked away.
A companionship I didn’t realize I had been missing, craving, until now.
“Do you have any pets?” She resumes her questioning between bites of her pancakes.
“Yeah,” I mutter casually, though my lips twitch despite myself. “His name’s Jake.”
Her brows lift, eyes narrowing as though she’s about to pounce. “Dog or cat?”
“Dog,” I answer, my smirk breaking free as I think about my mischievous canine companion.
“Jake?” she repeats, like it’s a revelation. “That’s a very human name for a dog. Aren’t dogs supposed to have cute nicknames like Biscuit, Waffles, or Sparky?” she teases. She doesn’t seem to notice that she’s leaning in closer, and without my brain’s consent, my own body leans in, too.
I smirk. “He was originally named Butterscotch, but I wasn’t going to be calling him that.”
The sound of her giggle hits somewhere deep, catching me off guard. It’s soft, breathy, and for some reason, my body reacts before my brain catches up. Thank god for the table between us.
“Yeah, I can’t see a guy like you walking around the park saying ‘Butterscotch.’”
My curiosity gets the better of me before I can stop it. “A guy like me? What kind of guy is that?”
She freezes. Just for a second. She’s staring at her pancakes like they’re going to sprout legs and walk away, her teeth catching her bottom lip like she regrets letting something slip. For the first time since she’s been in my car, she seems almost shy. Interesting.
“Oh, you know,” she says, fidgeting, “big, broody, built like he could lift a car—but probably apologizes when he bumps into people.”
I bite back a laugh. “Lift a car?”
She winces, shy and awkward, like the second those words left her mouth, she wished she could pull them back. “I mean, you just have that look,” she adds quickly, cheeks flushing pink. “Not that I think about you lifting cars or bumping into people. Or at all, really.”
Her rambling is pure entertainment, and I can’t stop the smile that tugs at the corner of my mouth.
“Right,” I say, leaning back just enough to watch her squirm. “Definitely not thinking about me.”
Her lips press together, and she hides behind her cup like it’s a shield. “Glad we’re on the same page,” she mumbles.
She’s cute when she’s flustered. The kind of cute that makes my brain short-circuit and my chest feel too tight. I should look away, stop staring, stop noticing how her hair falls forward when she ducks her head or how the corner of her mouth curves when she’s trying not to smile. But I don’t.
Instead, I take a slow sip of coffee and let the moment stretch.
Her eyes flick up to meet mine, just for a second, and something in my chest gives a traitorous lurch.
I’m so screwed.
Because this isn’t supposed to be happening. I shouldn’t care if she blushes or fumbles over her words. I shouldn’t want to keep her talking just to see how many shades of pink her cheeks can turn. But here I am, sitting across from her, fighting a losing battle against a smile that refuses to die.
“What kind of dog do you have?” she asks quickly, clearly desperate to change the subject.
“A Maltese-Yorkie mix. He’s about a year old, full of energy. Steals any socks he can get his paws on. He would eat peanut butter straight from the jar if I let him.”
“Wait, he eats peanut butter straight from the jar?” she asks, eyes wide with fascination. “That’s impressive, but isn’t it dangerous?”
“Not really,” I say, remembering the amount of peanut butter jars I have purchased from Costco. “I trained him to wait for it. Mostly. Sometimes he cheats. He’s stubborn and super manipulative but fiercely loyal.”
“Sounds like a handful. I wish I had a dog. I just don’t have the time right now.”
“Why don’t you have time?” I understand why I’m asking more personable questions but this insatiable need to know more about her is clawing out.
“The microbakery is so much work, I barely have time to take care of myself, let alone another living thing.”
At her confession, I let myself take a closer look, and it hits me how exhausted she appears. Dark circles shadow the corners of her eyes, faint lines crease her forehead, and her shoulders slump just slightly. My chest tightens at the thought that she’s been running on empty this whole time.
My brain latches on to her job. She’s a baker, but I thought Eli said his girlfriend was a photographer. Where would she find the time? Is she lying about being a photographer, maybe to go and meet other guys? Like what she’s trying to do here, have her cake and eat it, too.
Before I can dwell on that thought, her next question catches me off guard.
“Can I meet him?”
I stiffen. “Umm, sure, maybe someday,” I say carefully.
She groans in mock exasperation. “Fine. But that day better come soon, mister broody captor. Jake sounds like such a good boy.”
Her voice drops into a sultry tone when she says good boy. A shiver runs through me, a sudden jolt of awareness I can’t entirely explain, and heat blooms over every inch of my body.
“So,” she says, taking a sip of her cocoa, “you have a sister?”
“Yeah,” I say, thinking of Ava and what she’s up to in North Carolina, “her name is Ava.”
“Is she older than you?”
“No, she’s five years younger than me.”
“How old are you?” she asks with a hint of curiosity.
“I’m thirty-four. Why? Is that a problem?” I smirk at the way she fidgets with the sleeves of her sweater. I’ve noticed she does that whenever she’s shy or nervous about the situation. I notice a lot of things about her—that I shouldn’t be noticing.
“No. Not a problem. I’m twenty-six so that’s actually perfect. Age-gap trope is my favorite,” she says, winking at me. I swear my heart skips a beat.
“How did you become the designated feminine product fetcher?” she continues, not realizing the effect she has on me.
“Our mom passed away when Ava was born, and she didn’t have a female figure growing up.
It was the least I could do. Late-night purchases for tampons and chocolate were my specialty.
” I’m not sure why I’m sharing all this information with her, except that I want to.
There’s something warm and inviting about her that makes me want to share all my secrets.
“I’m so sorry.” Her voice is soft and comforting. No pity in her tone, like others when I’ve shared my past, just genuine compassion.
“Thanks,” I manage to say, trying to keep from swallowing against the tightness in my throat. I look down at my coffee cup, swirling the liquid, keeping my hands busy. “It was a long time ago, and I barely have any memories of her. It’s worse for Ava. She didn’t have any memories growing up.”
She nods slowly. “That must have been tough.”
I glance up, caught by the sincerity in her expression. For a second, the noise of the cafe fades and it’s just us, suspended in this bubble that is all ours.
As if the universe has impeccable comedic timing, my phone lights up with Eli’s name. My stomach drops. I need to act casual, like I’m not sitting here trying to catfish his girlfriend into revealing her true nature so he can move on to a better girl.
Eli’s voice rings through my phone, slightly breathless—like he’s been running a marathon. “Hey, dude, we have to abort the mission. Claire is freaking out that her sister’s missing. I need to meet her at the bookstore before she has a full-on panic attack.”
It takes a full sixty seconds for my brain to compute. His words hit one at a time, each heavier than the last.
Claire. Is. Freaking. Out.
Claire. Is. At. The. Bookstore.
Which means Claire is not sitting across from me, eating her Mount Everest-sized pancake tower.
My stomach sinks to the bottom of my feet. I can feel the color drain from my face. My mind replays the day. All I can focus on is the impending flashing red and blue lights heading toward the dinner, handcuffs digging into my wrists, and the potential of meeting my cellmate named Bubble.
“Dude, are you listening?” Eli’s voice brings me back to the present. “I’m going to take Jake with me and meet Claire on Main Street. Her parents are joining so we can do a search of the area.”
“Okay,” my voice is husky, “I will meet you there.” I hear rustling in the background. He must be leashing Jake to leave the house.
I hang up the phone, blinking at the girl across from me, my mouth dry, no words coming to my mind. How do I even begin to explain to this girl—who is not Claire, not Eli’s girlfriend—a complete stranger, that I was kidnapping her for an immersive role play?
For a moment, the realization of her not being Eli’s girlfriend hits me, quick and sharp. Thank god I haven’t been lusting after my best friend’s girlfriend. That thought vanishes just as fast, replaced by something far worse—dread. Pure, bone-deep dread. Because now? Now I am a kidnapper.
Yup, straight to jail.