Best of My Love (Fool's Gold, #20)

SHELBY WASN’T SURE what to expect when she showed up at Aidan’s house on Saturday afternoon, but the small, well-kept bungalow was something of a surprise. There was a two-car garage, a wide porch and a huge snowman in the front yard. While most of the town celebrated Cabin Fever Days with snow people of all genders and sizes, she hadn’t thought that Aidan would be one to participate.

His snowman was about five feet tall, with a sturdy shape and smiling face. A ski cap topped his head and two ski poles leaned against him, as if he was about to embark on an outdoor adventure. There was a whimsical quality about the snowman—maybe in the way he seemed ready to spring to life. Aidan might not have his father’s talent to work with glass, but she would guess there were a few lingering artistic genes in him.

She walked up the porch stairs and knocked on the front door. In the few seconds it took him to answer, she acknowledged the nerves bouncing around in her stomach. Part of her wanted to bolt—there was no way this was going to work. But the sensible part of her, the part that had been to therapy and read a bunch of books and really wanted to get better, knew that showing up was the first step. That if her goal of healing from the damage done to her psyche was to be reached, she had to go through the process. Running away rarely accomplished anything.

Aidan opened the door. “Right on time. Come on in.”

She did as he requested, careful to stomp the snow off her boots before walking into the house.

There was a forty-second bit of busyness to distract her from her nerves—unwinding her scarf, handing over her coat before stepping out of her boots. She noticed that Aidan was also in stocking feet, but his socks were thick and dark, while hers were covered with brightly colored cats. The contrast made her smile.

They were both in jeans and sweaters. His navy, hers dark pink. She hadn’t known what to do about makeup and perfume and all that stuff. Because this wasn’t a date. She was hanging out with a friend. But still, she’d wondered, and in the end had done what she did for work. Mascara and lip gloss.

They stared at each other. He was tall and broad. Masculine. The foyer was small and they were standing close together. Awkwardness pressed in on her. She didn’t know what to do with her hands, let alone her body.

“Should we, um...” He cleared his throat. “Go sit down?”

“Sure.”

She followed him into a good-sized living room. One wall was paneled, but not like in those scary midcentury grandma homes. This was rough-hewn, obviously old and well cared for. A big wood-burning stone fireplace stood opposite, with a large mantel stretching across the wall. A huge television hung above it. The furniture was black leather, the floors hardwood. A few paintings, mostly landscapes, were scattered on the walls. A patterned rug of reds and browns and greens anchored the room. The room was eclectic, but ultimately welcoming.

“I like it,” she said. “It’s very masculine, but not in a no-girls-allowed way.”

Aidan shoved his hands into his jeans pockets. “I picked out most of it. Nick helped with the rug. He has an eye for color.”

“The artist thing.”

He nodded. “That would be it.” He pointed at the sofa. “Have a seat.”

She sat at one end of the sofa. He took the other. They looked at each other, then away. Silence filled the room and awkwardness returned. Which made sense. She and Aidan barely knew each other. Rather than become friends in the normal way—over time, through shared interests—they were forcing it upon themselves. Where on earth were they supposed to start?

“What about—”

“Did you want to—”

They both spoke at the same time, stopped, and silence returned. Shelby decided there was no point in ignoring the obvious.

“This is really uncomfortable,” she said firmly. “But I think we can get past it.”

“Okay.”

The slow response was more neutral than agreement.

“We have a purpose,” she continued. “I want to fall in love and get married.”

Aidan’s expression tightened with what could only be described as panic. Some of her tension eased.

“Not to you,” she pointed out. “Don’t freak.”

“Then don’t say stuff like that.”

“Why not? Why can’t I be honest?”

“Because it’s not what any guy wants to hear. Not right off. It means you have a picture of what’s going to happen in your life and you’ll use any guy to get there. It makes us feel trapped.”

His words almost made sense. “Like what we want is more important than the outcome? Caring more about the bridal gown than the groom?”

“Yeah, that. Men and women want different things. You want to be committed.”

“And men want to cheat.”

His brows rose. “Who cheated?”

She tucked one foot under her opposite leg as she considered her words. “Wow. I honestly don’t know where that came from. Miles cheated, but we were barely dating, so I’m not sure it counts. I guess what I mean is I don’t trust men.”

“Shouldn’t you be afraid a guy would hit you rather than he would cheat?”

Talk about cutting to be heart of the matter. She held up both hands. “Yes, and maybe we could ease into the honesty just a little.”

“I thought women liked a man to say what he was thinking.”