“You don’t have to—” Aiden pinches my hip, ending my sentence prematurely. I shove out of his grasp, my fist rearing back as a reflex.
It pauses mid-swing, and Aiden’s silver eyes glow with amusement.
Letting my hand fall, I sidestep him and walk around the island, gesturing to the food sitting out. “Caleb, come on. You didn’t make all of this for me. Stay and help us finish it.”
I don’t know why I say us, like Aiden and I are a unit, but once it’s out there, I can’t fish it back. The word tastes bitter on my tongue and gets worse when Caleb gives me a small smile.
“It’s not a big deal, Ang. Eat up, and I’ll see you later for Christmas shopping.” He reaches out, patting my cheek even though I’m sure Aiden’s glare is aimed at us, and then he steps in, lowering his voice. “But, for the record, I do think you should put something on your face. That rash looks painful.”
I nod, smiling slightly. “I will.”
“Good.” He steps back, sliding on his coat, then disappears from the room. My heart aches as he goes, knowing he deserves a better friend, yet selfishly not being willing to let him go yet.
It’s that age-old caveat of wanting what’s best for others, but also needing to keep a piece of their goodness for yourself. If not for Caleb, I don’t know how I’d have survived in Lunar Cove this long, and I’m not in a place yet where I’m willing to find out.
Spinning on my heels, I scowl at Aiden. “You’re an asshole.”
He’s standing at the stove, using his finger to taste the yellow batter in a glass mixing bowl.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” His face twists, and he wipes his finger on the dish towel. “Your boyfriend can’t cook.”
“God, he’s not my fucking boyfriend.”
“Good thing, because he can’t cook. You’d probably die of food poisoning in that relationship.”
I’m indignant on Caleb’s behalf. “He can cook. I’ve had his apple crumble, and he makes scones and empanadas all the time.”
“Okay, so he can bake.” Aiden pushes the bowl back on the counter, turning to face me. “That’s not the same as cooking, though, and people who can’t cook shouldn’t try to make arepa boyacense unsupervised.”
I blink. “What the hell is that?”
“A Colombian breakfast dish. My mom used to make it every weekend when I was a kid, and let me tell you, it was heaven.” He points at the fried dough sitting on the plate. “Those taste like ass.”
“Familiar with that, are we?” I try not to let my surprise show over the fact that he’s talking about his past, so candid as he stands here in my kitchen.
Like we’re old friends and not, at best, star-crossed wannabe lovers.
A slow burning smile spreads over his lips, and he lets his eyes fall down over me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be familiar with yours in no time.”
He reaches into the bowl for a measuring cup, funneling the batter from there into the pan
I frown. “What are you doing?”
“My mother would disown me if I didn’t correct the golden boy’s mistake, so apparently I’m making you breakfast.” Glancing at me over his shoulder, he lifts an eyebrow. “Be a good girl and help out, hm?”
33
My thumb flicks against the lid of my Zippo lighter, my legs outstretched as I lounge on the bench in front of the Pruitt Art Gallery.
Caleb’s been back from break for half an hour, and while every light inside has been turned on, and the open sign flipped back, he hasn’t actually unlocked the door.
My dick is getting frostbite just sitting here.
There’s about three feet of snow on the ground, and the entire boardwalk is decked out in Santas and beautiful, twinkling lights, each store overhang having their own specific color of bulbs; red at the diner, yellow at the souvenir shop, blue at the art gallery, and so on.
Christmas back home stopped being much of an event when I was young; even before my career took off, and my parents decided cultivating the Aiden James brand was more important than cultivating me, things in our household were strained.
Not unloving, necessarily. Just awkward. A severe disconnect existed between the three of us that kept happiness on the outskirts of our lives.
My mother buried her sadness in pills, becoming the caricature of a once-great singer.
My father tried to alleviate his with material things. Business ventures, vacations, jewelry, models, and cars. Anything money could buy, Sonny James wanted it delivered to our home.
Me, well. I didn’t know what the fuck to do with my sadness. No one wanted to acknowledge it, because doing so was like admitting something inside of us was broken.
So I kept it close.
Bottled it up, then tucked it behind my rib cage like hidden treasure.
Leave something buried long enough, and eventually it’ll wash back up, waterlogged and sandy and worse off than if you’d just dealt with it in the first place.
I toss a peppermint candy at the glass door again, and this time Caleb’s face appears from behind a covered canvas. He frowns, pursing his lips when he sees me, like he isn’t sure if he wants to answer or not.
After a minute, he finally trudges over like the good little boy he is. Flipping the lock on the door, he yanks it open, crossing his arms over his chest.
“What do you want?”
Pushing to my feet, I close the lighter and stuff it in my pocket. “Can’t a guy come visit his favorite artist?”
“I’m not an artist. And I’m not your favorite anything.” He moves back as I walk inside, taking in the rows of displays in the little room.
Six individual glass cases line the middle of the floor, with the covered canvas standing at the back. Others hang on the wall, a macabre representation of still life here in the Rockies, and a spinning display showcases different native artifacts.
“That’s not entirely true,” I say, walking over to inspect a landscape of the lake just outside. “You’re my favorite nuisance.”