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AIDAN
Watching Lacey step out of her room is like seeing the first warm ray of sunlight break through a relentless winter sky. She's all casual grace in a white tank and jean shorts that seem to effortlessly complement her, layered with a thin over-sweater that does little to conceal the strength and warmth she carries within her. It's a sight that sends a fierce thrum of desire coursing through me, tight enough to strangle.
I remind myself to stay focused.
For Grace. For sanity’s sake.
Together with Grace, we merge into the bustling streets of NYC, our spirits light and free.
We dance through the city, from one landmark to the next, soaking up the street energy, our laughter ringing loud and true, until the lure of an ice cream truck becomes irresistible.
The late morning and early Saturday afternoon sun is sweltering.
It's the kind of heat that turns the Manhattan concrete into a hot plate and makes mirages shimmer on the horizon.
We all grab cones, but the seven-year-old in our group needs a second helping. Handing Grace some cash, I watch her dash off to snag the last strawberry cone.
As she skips away, I look up, squinting through the heat haze as Lacey enjoys her ice cream beside me. "This heat usually signals a storm on the way."
Whether I'm talking about the weather or the anticipation building inside me, I'm not sure.
But as we stand there, ice cream melting down our hands, the familiar spark between Lacey and me ignites again.
Our conversation flows as smoothly as the ice cream drips, landing us on her tales of Colombian cooking, a skill her mother passed down.
Lacey's laughter is deep and infectious, echoing down the street. "One of these days, I'll figure out how to make something sweet without burning it."
I give her a side glance, my cookie batter ice cream-topped cone halfway to my mouth. "But you're great in the kitchen."
"Oh sure, I can whip up a storm, a real Colombian storm, just like what's probably brewing above us right now. But sweets?" She shakes her head, her laughter subsiding into small snorts that make her green eyes squint. "Absolutely not. My mother, the queen of overbearing with a wooden spoon, could never make them either. Must be genetic."
I crack a grin, unable to keep my boxer briefs from tightening as I watch her lick a stray drop of ice cream from the corner of her mouth. Clearing my throat, I tease. "So, in a family of culinary geniuses, nobody can bake a cake?"
"Only if you want it weaponized," she shoots back with a grimace. "Honestly, we're better off sticking to arepas and aborrajados and leaving baking to anyone else."
"And your dad? Does he cook?"
Talk of her father shifts the mood like a cloud passing over the sun. Lacey's usual liveliness dims. "My dad," she begins, hesitating, "he's on short-term disability right now. Took a fall and messed up his hip pretty bad."
She fiddles with her melting ice cream, murmuring about the financial strain on their family, her voice barely above the noise of the street.
I frown, drawn by the honesty of our exchange. "My dad, Gerald Sullivan," I start, matching her tone, "you know, the clean-cut billionaire financier charm oozing out of every pore? Most folks think the sun shines out of his... well, you get the picture." I chuckle, but it's hollowed by the weight of what's next. "But our bond... it's been on ice, frozen over since the night I came home with that baseball championship trophy, only to find him..." I pause, the words tasting sour, "...entertaining his secretary in a way no kid should see their dad."
The air between us is heavy with shared vulnerabilities. Lacey's response is immediate, her voice low and sympathetic.
"Aidan, that's... I'm so sorry." Her green eyes hold a world of understanding and sadness, but she's quick to pivot. "Well, on the bright side, at least you got the trophy. Guess we both know our families are more soap opera than sitcom, huh?" Her smile pulls a reluctant laugh from me, a reminder that sometimes, shared burdens do feel a little lighter. She reaches out, squeezing my hand. "I really am sorry you had to go through that."
Lacey's ice cream, having clearly given up on life in this heat, decides to stage a dramatic escape down her hand. In a moment that could only be defined as an unexpected heroic act, I lean over and catch the runaway scoop with a quick lick.
The saltiness of the caramel swirl and Lacey's skin on my tongue has my dick twitching. Especially when I hear her tiny intake of air.
My steady stare collides with her sultry olive one.
"Can't let good ice cream go to waste," I say, bringing some lightness back to our heavy conversation.
I pull back, suddenly aware of eyes on us. Turning my head, I catch a glimpse of a guy not too far off, phone aimed directly at us with that unmistakable, "I'm not just texting, I'm totally taking a sneaky photo" stance.
Fuck. Just what we need.
