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"You know, for a high-powered executive, you do a surprisingly spot-on impression of a teapot," I say, edging closer, a smirk forming.
Aidan turns, signature smirk in place, teapot still in hand. "Ah, but Lacey, it's all about versatility. Not just the man in the suit; I'm the entertainer, the dad, and apparently, the master of voiceovers. Who knew?"
"I told him to audition for the next Disney movie!" Grace chimes in.
Laughing, I eye the table spread. "You've got the acting chops. You'd give Mrs. Potts a run for her money on Broadway." Glancing at the tea set, I smile. "And how'd you nail the voices without watching the movie? Or have you?"
Aidan grins. "Worried I watched it without you? Should I take notes for our next girls' night?"
Leaning on a chair, I playfully retort. "Please, as if you could handle all that Disney magic solo."
"I showed Dad a clip on his phone, and he nailed the voices!" Grace adds.
Pretending to ponder, Aidan then dramatically declares, "Why limit to Broadway when I can perform right here, with an amused nanny and an enchanted daughter as my audience?"
Grace's laughter, genuine and infectious, pulls me in. "Well, for your one-man show," I say, taking a seat, "reserve us front row seats. But I’m not easily impressed. I expect a full teapot transformation."
"Challenge accepted," Aidan winks, his voice commanding yet warm. "But beware, I might just exceed your expectations. I aim to impress, after all."
We settle into a comfortable silence as Aidan pours the tea and hands me a cup. I take a sip, relishing in the warmth it brings to my chest. "Where's Jessie, by the way? Didn't want in on the Disney magic?" I ask.
"I gave her the day off," Aidan replies, his gaze lingering on me as he takes a sip of his own tea. "I figured she could use the break, and we could each get more pancakes between us."
"Well, I'm definitely not complaining," I say, the warmth in my chest now spreading throughout my body.
"Good." He smiles, his gaze roving over my sleepwear—a cami and shorts—before he lets the expression fall. "So," he starts, lounging against the couch, "with just thirty-six hours left in this whirlwind city, we're going all out. Especially," he whispers conspiratorially, causing a shiver to dance down my spine, "since a certain brilliant nanny hinted it’s summer and our little dynamo hasn’t had a moment to just be a kid."
I laugh, attacking a pancake drowning in sprinkles.
"Sounds like a plan. And here I thought our biggest adventure was choosing between maple syrup and honey."
"The choices in this city are endless," Aidan grins. "Pizza or hot dogs. Central Park or Times Square. Broadway or off-Broadway." He leans closer. "Ice cream or frozen yogurt."
"Ice cream, without a doubt," I chirp, dodging the flood of memories his tone brings.
But it's no use; my mind is a relentless filmmaker, replaying last night's scenes on the terrace with impeccable detail. The way his hands felt over my skin, the warmth of his breath against my neck, and that exhilarating feeling of being so utterly consumed by someone.
I feel a blush creeping up my cheeks, warmth spreading through my veins.
I shift in my seat, hoping the sudden flush of heat isn't as apparent on the outside as it feels on the inside. Grace is blissfully unaware, munching away on her sprinkle-infested pancake, while I'm here, mentally back on that terrace, trying to remember how to breathe normally. "Yup, ice cream wins. Every time."
Suddenly, my phone vibrates against the table, like an unwelcome intruder breaking into my daydream.
Glancing at the screen, my heart sinks. It's a message from Mama about Papi’s need for a hip surgery. Now.
The world dims, and the joy of our playful breakfast turns gray. Amid the chaos, I realize ice cream might be the temporary fix I need.
Aidan, with his unnerving ability to read me like a novel, looks up at me, eyes narrowing into slits. "Everything okay?
I debate for a split second—do I spill the beans, lean on his shoulder like I've found myself doing a bit too often? But no.
This, whatever this tangled web of fondness and flirtation we've been weaving, it's not something I can afford to get lost in.
Not now. "Yeah, all good," I lie smoothly, plastering on a smile that I hope looks more convincing than it feels. "Just remembered something I need to do. A cold shower sounds pretty good right about now."
I excuse myself, seeking refuge in the shower. Maybe the cold water will quell the memories, the longing, the desire for something—or someone—I should avoid...
Chapter Seventeen
