Chapter 20
twenty
AIDAN
Her hand in mine is everything, and yet, it isn’t enough. Every inch of me wants to trace the line of her arm, to feel her pressed closer.
I tighten my grip just slightly, testing the boundary. She doesn’t pull away.
Every sense is keyed to her—the soft press of her hand, the faint scent of vanilla. I steal a glance, letting my eyes linger, memorizing the curve of her smile, the tilt of her jaw.
We’ve been silent since I started driving, but I haven’t felt the need to speak. It’s been…comfortable.
When Lucy finally speaks, her voice is careful. “So, um…where are we going?”
Oh, shit. That probably would’ve been good to mention before now.
“Sorry,” I say quickly, clearing my throat. “I really didn’t have a plan. I thought we could head to my place?”
As soon as the words are out, they sit there between us, too open-ended. What if she thinks that’s arrogant?
She turns to look at me, but I don’t dare look back. My heart is doing that uneven, off-beat thing it does when I feel too much while trying to feel nothing at all.
Fuck, I’m making a mess of this.
“It’s nothing fancy,” I add quickly, trying to keep my tone even. “Just quieter than town. Easier to talk.”
She nods slowly. “Okay.”
This whole thing is messy, and I know it. I’ve spent years keeping things neat, keeping people out. Now here I am, inviting her in, because I can’t seem to help myself?
“You don’t have to,” I say before I can stop myself. “If it’s too much—”
“Aidan,” she cuts in, a playful lilt in her voice. “Are you always this nervous when you invite a girl over to see your…what? Record collection? Fishing trophies?”
Her eyes sparkle with mischief, and the tension in my chest eases slightly.
“I don’t have either of those things,” I admit, the corner of my mouth tugging upward. “I’m not some mysterious bloke with hidden collections,” I add, trying to ignore the way her teasing makes me feel lighter. “Just a normal house. Probably a lot more kid’s toys than you’re expecting.”
“I beg to differ on the mysterious part, but I’m looking forward to seeing it,” she says before tightening her fingers around mine.
I keep my eyes on the road, following the familiar curves through the hills, but then I look over and immediately wish I hadn’t.
Her shirt clings to her chest under her unzipped jacket, and I catch the slow rise and fall of her breaths.
Heat punches low in my gut, enough that I shift in my seat, trying to ease the pressure building in my jeans. My grip on the wheel tightens, knuckles whitening.
She has no idea what she does to me. Or how close I am to missing a turn because my cock’s reacting faster than my common sense.
She bites her lip while lost in her own thoughts.
It’s the third time today, and every damn time, it chips away at my restraint.
Doesn’t matter that it’s probably just something she does without thinking.
My body doesn’t care. My mind sure as hell doesn’t care.
All I can focus on is the shape of her mouth, soft and flushed and so damn tempting it’s bordering on cruel.
If I grip the wheel any tighter, it’s going to snap. I’m trying like hell to ground myself in anything other than the image of her lips caught between her teeth. The things I’d do if I let myself close the space between us… To lean over. To taste her. To lose myself for one goddamn second.
She doesn’t know how close I am to unraveling.
We’re finally rolling to a stop as I pull into the driveway. One hand eases off the wheel, but the other stays tightly clasped in hers.
“We’re here,” I say.
When I turn to her, it hits me all over again.
God, she’s beautiful. Her hair falls loose above her shoulders, catching the late afternoon light like it’s made for it.
The way she’s looking at me now—open, patient, a little nervous—makes me want to pull her closer and find out if she tastes as sweet as she looks.
“What is it?” she asks, her voice barely above a whisper.
I want to trace the curve of her cheek with my knuckles just to see if she’d lean into it like I’m dying for her to. But I don’t, because if I start, I won’t stop. It wouldn’t be fair to either of us.
“Nothing,” I mutter, dragging my gaze away. “Just…come on in.”
I reluctantly let go of her hand to climb out of the truck, rounding the hood to meet her as she steps down.
I place a hand at the small of her back as we make our way to the porch. The garden’s a bit wild, overgrown in spots where I haven’t had time to tame it, but there’s something about the way Lucy looks at it that makes me see it differently.
“It’s lovely,” she says, her eyes sweeping over the climbing roses and unruly hedges.
“It’s a work in progress,” I correct her, fishing my keys from my pocket.
The lock sticks a bit, and I have to jiggle the key before the door swings open. I step aside to let her in. “It’s not much,” I mutter. “But it’s home.”
She steps inside, and all I can do is watch her.
Her gaze drifts slowly across the room, taking in the worn leather couch, the coffee table cluttered with Isla’s crayons and paper scraps, the framed photos lined up with a kind of crooked pride along the mantle.
She lingers on one of Isla beaming, curls everywhere, watermelon juice staining her cheeks from last summer.
“It’s really nice, Aidan,” she says. “Lived in. Homey.”
I don’t know what to do with that, or with the way she’s standing here, in my space, fitting into it so perfectly.
She moves farther into the room, fingertips trailing over the back of the couch. I track the movement, every inch, heat curling low in my stomach that has nothing to do with lust and everything to do with how goddamn vulnerable this feels.
“Can I get you something to drink?” I ask. “Water? Tea?”
She turns to face me, a polite smile playing at her lips. “Tea would be nice, thank you.”
“Milk? Sugar?” I ask, already half turned toward the kitchen.
“Just a splash of milk,” she says.
I nod, walking through the house. The moment the kettle’s on, I brace my palms against the counter, bowing my head for a second. Breathe. Get it together. It’s just tea. Just a woman standing in my living room who somehow makes it feel smaller and fuller at the same time.
By the time I return with two steaming mugs in hand, she’s drifted toward the mantle, fingers grazing the edge of a framed photo. Her head tilts slightly as she studies it.
“She was the most beautiful baby,” she says softly, eyes fixed on a photo of Isla with chubby cheeks and a sun hat two sizes too big. “She has your eyes. It’s one of the first things I noticed.”
I hand her the mug, and she takes it gently, both hands cradling the ceramic. Her fingers absently trace the handle.
I clear my throat, just to break the silence. “She was a handful. Even back then. Hated naps. Loved throwing food.”
Her eyes lift to mine, and her lips twitch like she’s fighting a smile before she steps away from the mantle, lowering herself onto the couch.
I hesitate long enough for her to notice. Then I follow, easing down onto the opposite end, leaving more space than necessary between us.
“I don’t bite, you know,” she teases. “I’m not really sure what’s going on with you today, but I can say with certainty, that won’t be a problem.”
That pulls a laugh out of me. “I’ll keep that in mind.”
The couch creaks softly as she shifts, curling one leg beneath her. She’s still watching me, but she doesn’t press. She just sips her tea and waits.
It’s time for me to say something. The words are right there, but they get stuck somewhere between my lungs and my throat. Once they’re out, there’s no taking them back.
“Look, I…” I exhale sharply, shaking my head. “I’m not good at talking. Or any of it, really.”
She takes another slow sip of her tea, watching me over the rim. “Mmhmm,” she hums, finally lowering the mug. “You’ve mentioned that.”
I nod, swallowing hard. “Aye. I don’t know where to start.”
She leans forward slightly, the movement bringing her a breath closer, and a hint of vanilla reaches me, mingling with the scent of tea. “Start with what you’re thinking right now.”
I study her for a moment, caught between wanting to bolt and wanting to stay. I really don’t know how to do this.
“I think I’m going to mess this up,” I admit, the words rough. “Whatever this is.”
She nods slowly, her eyes never leaving mine. “And what do you think this is?”
The question hangs between us, loaded with possibilities I’m not sure I’m ready to face. “I don’t know,” I admit. I’m choosing to be honest, even if it makes me sound like a coward. “I just know it feels different when you’re around.”
Her head tilts, just a little. “Different how?”
I exhale slowly. “When you’re with us, me and Isla…things feel lighter. Like maybe everything isn’t such a mess.”
Her brows lift slightly, not in shock, more like she didn’t expect me to say it out loud. Hell, I didn’t expect me to say it out loud.
“I’ve spent so long keeping our world small,” I continue, the words coming easier now.
“Just me and Isla against everything else. It made sense to keep it that way.” I meet her gaze, allowing myself to really look at her.
“Now I’m starting to think that maybe we’re missing something.
That maybe having people like you in our lives wouldn’t be such a bad thing. ”
Her smile spreads slowly, lighting up her face as she sets her mug down on the coffee table. “I’d like that,” she says softly. “Being in your lives, I mean.”
My hand rests on the couch between us, and I’m acutely aware of how close her fingers are to mine. Just a few inches of worn leather separating us.
“You know,” she continues, “when I first met you, I thought you were just…” She pauses, searching for the right word.
“Difficult?” I offer with a wry smile.
She laughs. “I was going to say reserved, but sure, difficult works, too.”
I can’t help but chuckle at that. “Fair enough.”
The teasing light in her gaze softens into something more serious.
“Then I saw you with Isla, and I saw a different side of you. You looked at her like she’s your whole world, Aidan.
So patient with her, even when she’s driving you crazy.
” She pauses. “It made me want to know that version of you more.”
The words land between us with a weight that makes it hard to breathe.
“I’m not…”
I’m not…what. Not good? Not ready? Not enough? I don’t even know what I’m trying to say.
Lucy’s expression remains open in that way that makes it hard to look at her and even harder to look away. She doesn’t rush in to patch the silence.
I let out a breath that scrapes its way out of my chest. “I don’t always get it right,” I finally say. “With her. With any of it.”
Her mouth curves into a small smile. “No one does.”
I’m not sure who the hell I thought I was fooling by pretending I hadn’t already made the decision that I want to try this with her.
I’ve spent so long trying not to need things for myself. But this? Her? I want to know what it looks like to let her in. And not just around the edges, not just in the cracks when I’m too tired to hold it all together. I want the whole thing.
So instead of reaching for all the heavy shit again, I lean into the one thing I haven’t let myself have in a while. Curiosity.
“So,” I say, “tell me something I don’t know about Lucy MacKenzie.”
A soft chuckle escapes her lips. “Okay,” she says, leaning forward just slightly. “Here’s one. I can’t ride a bike.”
“You’re joking.”
Her grin only widens. “Nope,” she says, shaking her head, “I never learned. Knox and Callan tried to teach me once when I was a kid, but I fell and broke my wrist. I swore I’d never get on one again, and I stuck to it.”
A low chuckle rumbles from my chest, and for a second, the sound surprises me, but it feels good. “You run a whole café by yourself, but you’re scared of a bike?”
She rolls her eyes. “It’s not about fear. It’s about principles. Besides, I’m perfectly content walking everywhere.”
“So, you’ve never taken a road trip on a bike, then? Experienced the wind in your hair, the freedom of the open road?” I lean back into the couch, finding myself more relaxed than I’ve been all day.
“I’ve managed to experience plenty of freedom without risking life and limb, thank you very much.” She smirks at me. “Your turn. Tell me something I don’t know about Aidan.”
I take a slow sip of tea, buying myself a second to think. Not because I don’t have answers, but because I don’t have the kind you give when someone’s looking at you like that. Like they might actually care what you say.
“I can play the guitar,” I offer. “Or I used to, anyway.”
Her eyebrows lift, and her whole face brightens. “Really? I wouldn’t have pegged you for a musician.”
“I’m not.” I huff a laugh. “Just something I picked up in school. I played around with it for a few years but haven’t touched it much since Isla came along.”
“Do you still have one?”
I nod toward the hallway. “In the closet somewhere. Gathering dust.”
“You should play for Isla sometime. I bet she’d love it.”
I nod again, slower this time. “Maybe.”
I’ve thought about it. I just haven’t had the time, or hell, maybe the permission to want something that small and personal for myself.
“You should play me something,” she says, nudging her foot against mine lightly. “Maybe not tonight. But sometime.”
I raise a brow. “And what would I play? Some soft acoustic ballad to sweep you off your feet?”
“I mean, if you have one in your repertoire, I wouldn’t complain.”
“I’m more of a ‘poorly tuned strings’ kind of guy,” I deadpan.
“Oh, be still my heart.” She leans back dramatically, hand over her chest. “Next you’ll tell me you sing off-key, too.”
“I do,” I say without missing a beat. “You’ve been warned.”
She laughs, head tipping back, and the sound hits me square in the chest. God, she’s something else.
“You’re ruining the fantasy, you know,” she teases, eyes dancing.
“Good,” I mutter, leaning back into the cushions beside her. “You don’t want to build up expectations I’ll never live up to.”
“Oh, Aidan.” She shakes her head. “You don’t even know, do you?”
“Know what?”
Her eyes catch mine, steady and sure. “You’ve already far surpassed any expectations I had.”