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After last night, shouldn’t he be sulking in a corner? Drying his tears with a dish towel or something?
“Go out for a run?” James asks from his position at the stove where he’s whipping up some eggs for breakfast.
“Just a quick one,” Aiden replies, heading over to the table and swiping a piece of sausage from my plate.
My mouth gapes.
Did we get absolutely nowhere last night?
How rude do I have to be before he catches the hint that I want nothing to do with him and his glorious body?
Aiden glances at Brent in the chair beside me, as if just now realizing he’s there.
“Morning, Brent. Sleep well?”
Brent glances at me with uncertainty before nodding slowly. “Uh…yeah. Thanks.”
“That’s great to hear. I’ve slept with Maddie before, and she can be quite the blanket hog. Good at cuddling though.”
My eyes flare.
“Slept in a bed with me!” I exclaim in outrage, ensuring everyone in the room gets the facts straight. “You didn’t sleep with me.”
Aiden smiles. “Right.”
“Also, I never cuddled you!”
Aiden frowns, thinking it over. “Didn’t you?”
I flip through memories at warp speed, trying to remember what we did back in that bed in the desert bungalow. Did I cuddle him? GASP. What if I did or said things in my sleep that I don’t remember?
Before I can process what to say next, Aiden turns and walks to the stove to load up his plate with food.
Brent leans in toward me. “Is everything okay?”
No! Everything is not okay, Brent!
My plan is backfiring. Aiden has the upper hand, and I can’t figure out how he’s managing it.
I was supposed to be in control this week. I was supposed to catch him off guard with my hunky boyfriend and convince him he made a huge mistake leaving me behind in Austin and jetting off to parts unknown.
What happened in the kitchen last night caught me off guard.
Aiden came on to me.
He touched me in ways he never has before—well…okay, other than that isolated incident by the pool.
My heart races just thinking about how it felt having him crowd in behind me and press me against the kitchen counter.
None of this makes sense.
I glance up as Aiden sits across from me at the table.
I want to leap out of my chair, grab his collar, and demand he give me answers.
What are you playing at, Aiden Smith?
What’s your end goal? To have a little fun with me on vacation? Get a good story to tell your buddies back in New York?
All of a sudden, I can’t sit through breakfast. I stand, my chair screeching against the wood floor, and I walk around the table until I’m right by Aiden’s side. He spoons a bite of eggs into his mouth then lets his gaze slowly glide up to me. Pure innocence personified.
“Can we talk for a second?”
I don’t even sugarcoat my tone. I want him to know I’m serious. Not someone to be trifled with.
“My eggs are going to get cold,” he points out.
“They’ll keep. Come on.”
I don’t wait for him to agree. I head in the direction of the bedroom I’m sharing with Brent, knowing he’ll come. Aiden’s shadow follows behind me, and once we’re in the room, I reach around him and shut the door.
“Let’s get one thing straight,” I snap, pointing my finger at him. “What happened last night cannot happen again.”
“Right.”
“No more taunting me at the breakfast table in front of everyone. No more touching me like you did last night. I’m with Brent.”
He smirks. “Of course you are.”
“What’s that supposed to mean!?”
“I don’t know, Maddie. You tell me.”
He steps closer, crowding me again. What is it with him?! Does he have to stand so close? He’s too tall. Too big. I hold my hands out to keep him at a safe distance, and my palms flatten against his chest.
His green eyes pierce me.
“Did the two of you have sex last night?”
I flush. “Not your business.”
“Have the two of you ever had sex?”
“Of course! Tons!”
He darts his hand out, quick as lightning, and hooks it around the back of my neck. Not so hard that I flinch, but hard enough that I can’t look away.
“I’ve discovered your little secret, Maddie Lane.”
My heart sinks.
No.
Not possible.
“I know what you’re playing at. I know Brent isn’t your boyfriend. I know you’re up to your old tricks. What is it with you and fake boyfriends?”
I gulp, trying not to cry.
How did he figure it out? How does he know the truth?
“Who is Brent?”
My lip quivers.
“My boyfriend,” I say, trying in vain to keep the false pretense alive.
He steps toward me, never releasing my neck, our bodies molding together. Then he leans down and I smell the sweat from his run mixed with the remnants of his body wash. “You don’t have a boyfriend.”
He says it like he’s slicing me with a sword, and the wound he inflicts is all too real.
