As I’m hanging up, she calls out, “Take a picture of his ass for me.”
That is so not going to happen.
I push myself off the wall I was leaning against and make my way to our little holiday construction zone. Aaron’s already taking off his jacket and looking at the plans we’re working from tonight. Part of me now feels like a horrible friend. Amanda would like this view. I know I do . . . But I’m not going to think about how hot he is. Shit. Stop. Right. There. Amelia. When I walk up, he smiles brightly and nods with his head. “Hey, Amelia.”
The way my name rolls off his tongue, in his deep, gravelly voice, causes my body to start to heat and my nipples start to swell. Just like that. One single greeting and I’m affected by him. I’m going to chalk it up to not seeing Trey for a while or having any physical contact for some time.
It’s definitely not from the way his bright blue eyes shine at me when he sees me, or how his entire face lights up when I walk into the room, or how his chest muscles flex with every little movement he makes. That can’t be it at all, right?
“Hey Aaron.” I take off my jacket as well and eye the plans. “Working on the bakery today?”
“I think so, unless you had another idea?”
“No, that works.” We finished the crazy tree last week and shipped it off to the painting crew. Aaron said he normally helps paint as well, but since we have many differently sized sets to build this year, he wants to make sure we get them built first, and then we can help paint if needed in the end.
Seamlessly, we work together in silence, only speaking when we need to communicate about a tool or what size to cut a piece of wood. If it didn’t seem so natural, I would feel awkward, but for some reason, it feels right.
Within an hour, we have all the pieces cut and sanded. When I say we work well together, I’m not lying.
“That went quicker than expected.” He stands over the pieces ready to be put together, his hands on his narrow hips. “I’m kind of impressed. Looks like those birdhouse building skills aren’t as rusty as I thought they would be.”
“Like riding a bike,” I joke.
Pulling on the back of his neck, his bicep threatens to snap the sleeve wrapped around his arm as he looks shyly at me. “I still have the one you made me. It’s in my backyard.”
“Are you serious?” Why he would keep it?
He nods, still pulling on his neck, a nervous tendency I’ve noticed. “Yeah. I coat it every year with a weather-protective sealant to preserve it. The squirrels seem to like it more than the birds, but I’m okay with that. As long as it’s used.”
I’m a little dumbfounded. Why would he keep the birdhouse he begged me to make him so long ago? I would have thought he’d dispose of everything that reminded him of me. And yet, he kept the birdhouse. The birdhouse I gave him for our one-year anniversary. It seems strange, but it also makes me feel . . . warm.
He kept it.
He preserves it.
He actually uses it.
The wall I’ve erected around my heart when it comes to Aaron cracks, the mortar loosening ever so slightly.
“Wow, I guess I thought you would have gotten rid of it.”
“Never,” he answers with conviction. “You made it for me, Amelia. There isn’t a day that goes by that I don’t stare at it and remember the look on your face when you gave it to me. It’s something I will always cherish.”
Funny how he will cherish a birdhouse I made, but not my heart . . .
Clearing my throat, I nod. “Well, that’s nice.” I really don’t know how to respond so I try to redirect the conversation. “Does that mean you kept the mug I made you in that pottery class we went together, the one that the handle fell off?”
He nods. “Holds my pencils at work.” My jaw goes slack. “And before you start questioning everything you ever gave me when we were together, yes, I still have it.” He leans forward and wiggles his eyebrows at me. “Even the boudoir pictures.”
“What?” My eyebrows shoot up and my face heats to dangerous levels. “Oh my God, why do you still have those?”
He laughs, his voice booming through the warehouse, drawing the attention of other volunteers.
“Stop that.” I swat at his stomach, getting slightly turned on by the way his chest bounces with his laugh and the way his throat muscles contract with each sound.
Throat muscles. That’s what my life has come to, being turned on by throat muscles.
“You were supposed to get rid of those,” I whisper-yell at him. “Not keep them.”
Chuckling now, he says, “Ex-boyfriend privileges. I get to keep anything I want. Don’t worry; they’re tucked away in a box in my attic. I don’t pull them out like a fucking creep. Jacking off to your ex just screams pathetic loser to me.”
“But you still have them. What if something happened to you and you died? That box would be opened by whoever is clearing out your house, and my naked body would be exposed. Those pictures would most likely be sold to some sick porno site for the world to see. Is that what you want, Aaron? For the world to see my naked body?”
Still chuckling, he answers, “You’re not naked in the pictures because you were wearing lingerie. The most you can see is side boob.”
“That’s still side boob. Everyone loves side boob. Go ahead, take a poll, I bet side boob wins out over nipple.”
“Are you kidding me?” he asks incredulously. “There is no way side boob wins over nipple.”
“There’s more mystery to side boob than there is to nipple. When you see a nipple, you think, oh there’s a nipple, but side boob its like, that’s a great tit, I wonder what the nipple looks like?”
Aaron sits back on his heels, his eyes studying me. “Are you telling me you’ve spent time observing tits?”
I roll my eyes. “No. God, you’re such a man.”
He tips my chin with his finger and winks at me. “Glad you noticed.” My stomach bottoms out and my skin crawls with pleasure, wanting more than just that little wink. No, you have a boyfriend, get it together. “But I’m right, and I know I am. Any man would take nipple over side boob.”
“I think you’re wrong.”
“Is that right?” He looks around the room. “Should I ask all the men in the room?”
“What? No.” I step forward. “Are you crazy? These people are here to help children, not to be asked about nipples.”
“They might want to be asked about nipples,” he counters, his smirk doing deathly things to my body.
“They don’t, and I swear to God, if you ask I’ll murder you.” When Aaron and I were going out, he had no qualms in making a fool out of both of us. He didn’t mind shouting the word penis in public, or acting like a jackass just to embarrass me. It was one of his favorite pastimes and unfortunately, one of the things I loved most about him. He was so carefree, so easygoing, just living life . . . like me.
“Fine, I’ll ask the next best thing.” He pulls out his phone from his back pocket and starts typing away. I try to look at what he’s doing but he turns away from me.
“Who are you texting?”