I was Celia.
The clothes, the hair, all of it was my sister, but that wasn’t what made the image before me so surreal; after all, those things are only skin-deep. It was the glow on my cheeks that even the most expensive makeup couldn’t provide, the spark in my eye that was looking forward to doing something irresponsible. It was my posture, the confident bend in my knee and the strength in my shoulders that spoke of a woman not constantly bogged down by worrying about every single tiny detail of life.
What I saw in the mirror was a girl who, even if for only that brief second, had given in to what could be rather than having her hands wrapped up in manipulating her future into what it needs to be.
And as soon as I recognized it, I chased it away.
Suddenly the room was too small, the clothes were cutting off my circulation, my legs felt numb, and I raced outside for air . . .
Only to run into him.
Aden.
The way he looks at me dulls my pulse to a slow and desperate throb. With him, I’m not Celia or Sawyer, I’m some hybrid that he seems to find interesting enough to be around, to kiss, to date.
When he opens the passenger-side door to his truck he flashes a cocky smile that makes me think he can read my thoughts. That he knows the effect he has on me. And he likes it.
But when I smile back something happens. His grin falls and he’s briefly knocked off his game as wonder dances behind his eyes.
A tense moment builds between us until he clears his throat.
“Buckle up.” He dips his chin and runs a hand over his hair before shutting me in.
I pull my seat belt on and blindly buckle it as I watch him jog around the hood with all the grace and agility of a seasoned athlete.
He climbs inside and the engine roars to life. “You like Italian food?”
“Yeah.”
He cranks the wheel around and takes us toward town. “I know a place. It’s a hole in the wall, but they have the best baked rigatoni I’ve ever had.”
“Sounds good.” I struggle for something to talk about as he turns the dial on his radio to some alternative rock station. There’s no CD player, but only an old tape deck. Although the thing must be vintage, its interior is clean and well taken care of. “This is a great truck.”
“Thanks, it was Cal’s. It’s old but I like that I can pop the hood and fix shit if it breaks. No computers on these old Chevys.”
I don’t know anything about cars so I simply nod and grip my purse in my lap to hide my nervousness.
He makes a sharp right turn and something silver slides from beneath my seat to settle at my shoe. I reach down and scoop up a set of dog tags. They jingle as I pull them closer to inspect the name.
COLT
ADEN, R
A304823
O POS
CHRISTIAN
“Are you still in the Army?”
His eyes dart between the tags in my hand and the road ahead.
“No.” He leans over, pops open the glove box, then swipes the tags and tosses them in.
“Were you in the Middle East for a long time?”
He works his jaw back and forth for a few seconds then nods. “Four deployments, longest was fifteen months.”
“Fifteen months?” That’s insane. “I thought you guys only go for a few months at a time.” Over a year in a war-torn country sounds like hell. “You must’ve had a pretty important job.”
His eyebrows drop low and he hits the brakes so hard that if I weren’t wearing a seat belt I would’ve hit my head on the dashboard. He turns and smiles, but it seems forced. “We’re here.”
I look out the windshield to see a sign that has Rizzario’s Italian Ristorante painted on a red brick building. It’s quaint and has a romantic feel, which sends my stomach tumbling.
He hops out of the truck and circles the hood, but the way he’s carrying his body is different. Stiff shoulders and slower, more controlled movements. He opens my door, avoiding my eyes, but gives me a hand to help me slide as gracefully as possible out of my seat.
To my disappointment he releases my hand and walks ahead of me and into the restaurant. Weird because he seemed to purposefully slow his pace to walk side by side when we left the cottages.
After a quick request for a table on the patio we’re led to a small outdoor area that’s sheltered by wisteria vines and twinkle lights. Aden pulls my chair out for me and despite the 180-flip in his mood I smile at the gentlemanly gesture.
“What?” He sits across from me, his gaze intent on mine.
“I’ve never had a chair pulled out for me before.”
“No?” He raised an eyebrow. “None of your globetrotting boyfriends pulled out a chair for you, huh?” He shakes out his napkin and drapes it across one thigh. “All money. No class.” He cringes but only slightly.
I try not to read too much into it or let his opinion of my sister’s dating life make me angry; after all, he’s probably right.
I pick up my menu and pretend to be looking at the options when I’m really trying to figure out where I went wrong. He’s only been like this with me twice, and both times it was when I brought up the military.
“Can I get you something to drink?” A female voice sounds from our tableside and before I can open my mouth to order an iced tea, Aden’s barking an order for two whiskeys.
I curl my lips between my teeth and wait for her to leave before leveling him with a stare. “I don’t drink whiskey.”
He leans back and drops his hands to his thighs. “Why am I not surprised?”
I keep my eyes fixed on his and hope he looks away first but he tilts his head and keeps his gaze locked with mine.
I lean in. “I’m sorry.”
He blinks.
“I didn’t know,” I whisper. “Now I do, and it won’t happen again.”
“What’re you talkin’—”
“Your military career.”
He jerks like I socked him in the gut and his shoulders tense.
“It’s a topic you’re not comfortable with, I see that now. I didn’t know that before, so please stop punishing me. I made a mistake, I apologize, so you can stop looking at me like I’m the enemy here.”
His mouth opens to say something but the waitress comes with our drinks. She puts them on the table and turns to leave.
“Wait,” he snaps at the poor girl. “She’d like to order something else.”
I envision Celia in the seat instead of me and imagine how she’d respond.
The waitress looks at me and rather than order an iced tea I pick up the whiskey and nod. “This is fine. Thank you.”
He narrows his eyes. “Really?”
I take a sip and fight the cringe that crawls up the back of my neck as the burning booze slides down my throat. “Delicious.”
A hint of a grin curls his lips and he sips from his own drink staring at me like I’m some freaky side-show he’s enjoying.
We keep the conversation relatively impersonal from that moment on. I ask him about fishing and he seems content talking about different fish, market prices, and San Diego history.