Page 31 of That Rush

“I intend to.”

We say goodbye, and I settle into the hammock with my wine and book. The ropes shift beneath me as I stretch out, bare feet crossed at the ankles. Wind sighs through the trees surrounding the cabin, carrying the clean scent of pine across the porch.

This is why Friday belongs to me.

This week alone, I’ve had to explain to a father of four that his son’s reading map was not, in fact, a binding legal contract. I’ve settled two separate disputes over the same purple crayon and found a missing book exactly where it belonged, which is somehow always the most exhausting part.

I love my job. I also love the sharp, clean silence that follows when I close my cabin door on all of it, leaving nothing but the wind and a particularly judgmental squirrel.

Apparently, Aiden Slade considers that a flimsy excuse.

My mouth curves despite me.

He looked genuinely baffled when I refused his invitation. It seemed no one had ever explained that a broad chest, beautiful daughter, and famous last name do not automatically cancel another person’s plans.

Then I explained it to him.

He listened. That’s what followed me home. Not just his steady gaze, but the way his expression shifted when he realized I meant it. He hadn’t argued or tried to pressure me. He’d just watched me walk away, and I felt the heat of his focus on the back of my neck the whole way to my car.

I open my book to the page where I left off last night.

Several paragraphs later, the hero has the heroine’s wrists secured above her head and is giving her a detailed explanation of what he intends to do with his mouth. The scene is filthy, specific, and impressively committed to consent.

Usually, this is where the rest of the world disappears.

Tonight, Aiden keeps wandering onto the page.

The hero’s hands become Aiden’s. The command on the page lowers into his voice, and when I imagine the focused intensity in his eyes turning raw, a low, pulling heat coils deep in my stomach.

I slip the bookmark between the pages and stare out at the empty trail.

Apparently, anticipating Aiden Slade feels almost as satisfying as being alone.

That realization is inconvenient enough. Worse is wondering what he would say about the explicit chapter in my hand.

The truly dangerous part is that I can almost hear his answer.

The following afternoon settles into the library with the soft shuffle of pages and the occasional click from the circulation desk. I’m updating the summer reading registrations when a purple book slides across the counter and stops on top of my paperwork.

“I finished it,” Josie says.

I look up at her proud smile first. I look past her. A mistake. Aiden stands a few feet away in worn jeans and a dark gray T-shirt that stretches across his chest. His gaze meets mine, steady and far too amused for a man who hasn’t said anything yet.

“The whole thing?” I ask Josie.

“Even the big words. I only needed help with three.”

“Four,” Aiden says.

She twists toward him. “The horse’s name doesn’t count. It was made up.”

“I’m sure the horse appreciates your defense.”

I press my lips together, although Aiden catches the smile anyway. “What did you think?”

Josie turns back to me and plants both hands on the counter. “I liked the magic, but the girl kept doing things alone when she had friends who wanted to help. That made everything take longer.”

“It usually does.”