Does he still serve? Maybe he’s home on leave?
I jerk when I realize I’m still standing in the same spot by the circuit box with my mouth gaping at where Aden disappeared around the corner. I wander back inside and grab my list and pretend that the round paper against my linear list isn’t irritating the hell out of me. Paper should be rectangular, square maybe, but never a circle.
Forcing my mind on the things that need to get done, because thoughts of Aden Colt will get me nowhere, I run everything through my mind.
Starting at the top. I outline the word electricity and my stomach jumps at the idea of crossing it off once Aden gets the breakers replaced.
I add car battery to the list and frown just thinking about how I’m going to get that rusted piece of metal back to Phoenix. Maybe I can leave it here, it’ll get towed eventually, Celia never has to know.
Last night I found the Yellow Pages under Celia’s sink. It’s a little water damaged but I managed to find a place in town that sells boxes. They don’t open until nine so until then . . . I look around the room and as much as I love how the chaos of it all fits my sister’s personality, the lack of uniformity makes me agitated.
A click sounds followed by the hum of power. Yes! I draw a line through my number one to-do and am instantly reenergized. Aden’s head passes by the window as he rounds the porch. Oh crap, he’s coming in.
I hop up from the table and straighten my shirt just in time before he pops his head in. “Hey.”
I wave pathetically.
His dark eyes study me and narrow. “Can I come in?”
“Oh, um . . .” I look around as if the messy room will give me a reason to say no, but I find nothing helpful and resign to the inevitable. “Sure.”
He steps inside, his eyebrows dropped low as if he’s on a mission. He finds a lamp and clicks it on, then stands and props his hands on his hips in a way that draws my eyes to that spot where the muscles form a V and a light dusting of dark hair peeks up from his shorts. “You should check the bedroom.”
“Good idea.” I hop and whirl around as if his words sent an electric shock through my central nervous system. I give him my back so he doesn’t see the furious blush coloring my face. With such pale skin I’ve never been able to hide my embarrassment. I scurry to the bedroom, clicking on the lights, and return hoping Aden will be outside because being in this tiny space with him is smothering.
No such luck. “They work.”
“Did you check to see if anything had been taken?”
I wouldn’t know so I just nod. “Yep, everything’s here.”
“Hmm, that’s what I thought.” He moves over to the bookshelf, his eye caught on something. “I was pretty sure I got to them before they managed to grab anything.”
I’m stuck staring at his back as he studies the bookshelf so it takes a second to register what he’d said. “Wait . . . you caught the guys who broke in?”
He makes an affirmative grunt. “No big deal, heard something that didn’t sound right for three-thirty in the morning, came to check it out and saw two guys rootin’ around in there.”
“I thought you lived on the boat?”
His eyes slide to mine but only for a second before he’s back to studying a photo. “I do, but I used to stay here in Cal’s old place.”
I open my mouth to ask why he moved.
“You ran with the bulls in Pamplona?”
“Ha! Yeah right—”
He plucks a framed photo off the shelf and flips it to face me.
I bite my lip remembering I’m not me, I’m Celia. “You betcha’.”
His mouth twists at my response and he turns back to the bookshelf. “Huh, you don’t strike me as a risk taker.”
My chin tucks back into my throat. “How would you know what I am? You know nothing about me.” Or maybe I need to try harder to not be me.
“African safari.” He plucks another photo from the shelf. “Is that a lion you’re petting?” He stares down at the frame.
“Uh-huh . . .” I think.
“How did you get close enough to pet a lion?”
Great question. “They have, like, a lion whisperer. He got the lion to let us pet him.” Please, don’t ask more.
“It’s some kind of big cat sanctuary?” He’s still studying the photo.
Sanctuary, of course! “Mm-hm.”
He pulls at another framed photo. “From Africa to . . . Vegas?”
“I like to travel.”
“Who’s the dude?”
“A friend.” I think.
He narrows his eyes. “You’re kissing him.”
I cross to him and snatch the photo away. “He was a good friend.” I put it back on the shelf, then groan when I see a handful more. This was a mistake, I can’t explain all these.
He reaches over my shoulder and pulls another one down. “You’re with a different guy in almost all these pictures.”
“I have a lot of guy friends.”
He frowns. “Huh . . .” He studies another photo. “Friends with benefits.”
A flash of heat ignites behind my ribs and I rip the picture from his hand. “Why don’t you mind your own business.”
He steps back and holds his hands up in surrender. “Easy there, freckles. I was just making an observation.”
“Well . . .” I flip a few photos facedown. “Your observation is wrong.”
“I’m not judging. Nothing wrong with a woman who uses sex to get what she wants.” He shrugs and hits me with that lazy grin that only works to further upset me.
“You think you can come into this house, see a few pictures, and think you know me? That you can throw your observations around like you’re some pillar of virtue?”
He doesn’t seem at all fazed, and tilts his head watching with interest as I completely lose my shit.
“So what, ya know? So what if I dated guys who could take me on these fabulous trips, huh? That doesn’t make me a slut, it makes me a go-getter. It’s not like both parties weren’t enjoying themselves. Stop looking at me like that!”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“You’re looking at me like I’m pathetic all while implying that Celia is a slut.”
His eyebrows pop high on his forehead and I freeze at the realization of what I’ve done.
I grab the first photo I see and shove it in his face. “This girl, Celia, me, is living life to the fullest.”
He eyes the photo then chuckles. “Yeah, she is.” He squints. “Those real?”
I flip the photo around and then smash it to my chest. “Pretend you didn’t see that.” God, Cece, Stephen Tyler signing your boobs?
My breath saws in and out of my lungs as I try desperately to regain my composure. “Listen . . .” I place the photo on the shelf, facedown. “I’m moving out. It’ll take me a week or so to pack up and arrange for movers. Since I’m paid through to December I’m going to need to get a prorated refund for the months I won’t be here.”
He crosses his arms at his chest and I almost get distracted by how the position accentuates his biceps. “’Fraid I can’t do that.”
“Of course you can.”
“No, you signed a one-year lease. If you leave before your lease is up, that’s on you.”
“You’re joking.”
“I’m not.”
“That’s not right.”