I roll my eyes. “You’re not driving my sweet ass anywhere, except maybe into your mattress later.”
“Now who’s throwing around the cheesy lines?” His gaze moves down my body on a hot sweep, though.
“Accurate, not cheesy.”
“Not accurate if you keep making fun of my eating habits.” He crosses his arms, but he’s smirking.
“I happen to love boxed scalloped potatoes. I always cook them in a super-shallow pan, and take them out like five minutes early.”
“So the potatoes are still a little crunchy,” he finishes for me.
“Exactly. Me and my younger brother, Bradley, loved them that way. Van used to get so annoyed that they weren’t fully cooked.” My smile wavers at the memory.
“It must be hard to have all those memories and try to reconcile them with who he’s become.”
“He’s still my brother; he did something terrible, but it doesn’t mean I’m not going to love him. I hate what he did but not him as a person, if that makes sense.”
He moves closer; his fingers drift along my cheek. “Your heart is too pure for someone like me.”
“What?” I must have heard that wrong.
“Sorry.” He gives his head a shake. “Do you wanna sit? We can talk?” He thumbs over his shoulder to the couch.
It’s alluring, the idea of opening up to him. But even if I misheard him, I have a feeling too much talking tonight is going to make him hazardous to my heart. Right now I don’t want to think, I just want to feel. “It’s pretty late. Maybe you should show me your bedroom instead?”
“Yeah. I can definitely do that.”
Half an hour later I’m tucked into his side, both of us sweaty and sated. His bedroom is 100 percent him. The frame is rough-hewn wood, and the dresser matches. There isn’t much in the way of furniture, the room being built for function instead of style. But the comforter is gray-and-navy plaid, the sheets the same shade of navy. There are only two pillows and no extra blankets. It’s a bachelor bedroom through and through.
“So I’ve been thinking.” His fingers sweep up and down my spine.
“Oh? What about?” I settle my hand on his chest and prop my chin on the back of it so it’s not digging into his pec. My stomach flips at his expression. He looks nervous.
“You and me.” He sounds uncertain.
“Okay.”
“I don’t really know how to do this.” He scratches above his eyebrow.
“Do what?” The panic is instant and makes my stomach somersault.
“I’ve never had a woman in this bed.”
“Because you usually sleep with women at their houses?” I’m trying to figure out where he’s going with this.
“Yeah. No. Shit. I’m not very good at this.” He blows out a breath. “Look. I don’t do relationships. It’s just not . . . something I have much experience with, and it seems like something I’d be likely to fuck up. I don’t let a lot of people into my personal space and definitely not my bed.”
“Do you not want me to sleep over?” My throat feels like it’s starting to close up, and my heart squeezes painfully. At least if I have to do the walk of shame, it’ll be dark.
“No. I mean yes, I want you to sleep over. I like you. I want you here. What I’m trying to say and really sucking at it is that I like spending time with you.”
“And you’d like to spend time with me in your bed?” I try to make a joke, because he seems pretty stressed out, and for a second I thought he was kicking me out after sex.
“Yeah.” He smiles. “Exactly.”
I smile back but swallow down the stupid lump that’s formed. I remind myself that he’s literally just told me he doesn’t do relationships, so any romantic notions I’ve started concocting need to be tossed out with the trash.
“Wait. No.”
“You don’t like spending time with me?”
“I do. A lot. And not just in bed. I was thinking maybe I could take you out for dinner or something. We could go to Lake Geneva. They have nice restaurants. The kind where you can wear a dress and get all fancy. If you want. I mean, I don’t mind going to places around here either.”
“You mean like a date?”
“Yeah. Like a date. Unless you don’t want to call it a date. Then it can just be dinner.” His eyes dart around.
“I’d like to go out for dinner with you.”
“Yeah?” He sighs in relief and grins.
“Yeah.” I smile back.
“Great. How about Saturday night?”
“It sounds perfect.”
“I’ll set it up, then.” He kisses me softly and reaches over to turn out the bedside light. “Night, Teagan.”
“Night, Aaron.”
Three seconds later he’s breathing deeply. I honestly have no clue how anyone can fall asleep that fast. I lift my head from his chest and check to make sure he’s not faking it. He’s not. He’s completely out.
I think I can count on one finger the number of times I’ve fallen asleep that quickly, and that was because I had to be sedated to have my wisdom teeth pulled and they were impacted. The black eye and the swelling were the worst. I refused to go to school for two weeks until the bruising went away.
I move his arm so I can get to my purse and take my medication. I don’t want a repeat of last night, when I accidentally fell asleep and then woke up in the wee hours of the morning. It took forever for my mind to settle again. I also take the opportunity to use the bathroom before I climb back into Aaron’s bed and snuggle into his warm, solid body.
The thing about sleeping in a bed that isn’t mine is that I wake up a lot. For the first couple of weeks after I moved to Pearl Lake, I would wake up at four in the morning. Sometimes I could go back to sleep for a couple of hours, but sometimes I couldn’t.
I wake up at four thirty and lie there for a while, listening to Aaron breathe, trying to match mine to his and shut my mind off. But I can’t.
So eventually I roll out of bed, grab his shirt from the floor, and slip it over my head, reveling in his scent as I pad out of the room, closing the door behind me so I don’t wake him up. He gets up early enough as it is; I don’t want to rob him of precious hours of sleep.
I make a stop in the bathroom and check my reflection in the mirror. There are terrible bags under my eyes because my sleep hasn’t been great the past few days. The call from Bradley weighs heavy on my mind. I don’t want him to feel alone, but every time I talk to him, it brings up all kinds of memories. Like the day our mom didn’t come home after she had surgery and I had to comfort him when he was asking where she was. I shut down those thoughts. They’re not helpful, and all they’re going to do is make me more anxious.
I grab my purse, take my morning medication so I’ll be able to focus today, and spend a few minutes covering my bags with concealer so I don’t look quite so unrested before I head for the kitchen.