I tilt my head toward the ceiling and close my eyes.
Fuck.
Eight condoms definitely won’t be enough.
SIXTEEN
MAGGIE
“Jarred sauce or not,this is delicious,” I say. “You didn’t mention you were a cook.”
“I threw pasta in a pot of boiling water.” Aiden laughs, wiping some marinara from the corner of his mouth. “I’m hardly a professional.”
“Still. It’s impressive.”
“All this flattery is going to go to my head. It’s easy to fall into the cycle of takeout after a long day at work, but cooking for a teenage athlete reminds me to avoid the burgers and fries and make a meal that’s fairly healthy once in a while. All set with your plate?”
“Yeah. I can do the dishes.”
“Absolutely not. I’m going to toss them in the sink with the rest of the pile and worry about them tomorrow. Give me a few minutes, and then I’m all yours. Feel free to take a look around while you wait.”
I jump off the barstool. “Is this my chance to snoop? To see what’s hiding in your sock drawer?”
“Now I wish I had something cool in there besides socks with tacos and cats on them. Come back in here when you’re done, then we’ll eat some dessert.”
“Do you mind if I take my shoes off?”
“This place is yours for the next twenty-four hours, Maggie. You can do whatever you want.”
I grin and unzip my knee-high boots, leaning them against the counter next to a pair of shoes that must be Aiden’s. “Whatever I want?”
His eyes blaze and he pulls me toward him, capturing my lips in a searing kiss. “Whatever you want.”
He gives my ass a tap and I walk down the hallway to the left of the kitchen. Photos flank the walls and I stop to peer at them. There’s Aiden, his arm around a guy with tattoos. That must be Shawn, the best friend. Next is a framed photograph of him with a young girl. She’s on his shoulders and they’re both laughing. It must be his daughter; she’s nearly identical to him. There are a dozen more; Aiden graduating from med school. A family portrait. A trip to a ski resort.
I spy a door at the end of the hall, partially ajar. I push it open and smile. Aiden’s bedroom. Complete with curtains, a head and footboard, and a king mattress. A shirt hangs from the edge of the laundry basket. A baseball hat is on the door handle to the bathroom. There are a couple big windows and a rug under the bed. It’s clean and well-organized, the space of an adult man who has his life together.
He said I could look, so I boldly walk inside. It smells like him; woodsy, with a hint of spice. The walls are a faded white. There are more pictures in here. One on the bedside table next to a glass of water. The other on the large dresser by a half-burnt candle. Both are of him with his daughter, the biggest smile I’ve ever seen plastered on his face.
It’s hard to ignore how much I’m enjoying spending time with Aiden. He’s not the first guy to give me any attention; I’ve had patients’ family members flirt with me while I try to give a diagnosis. A cute guy in the coffee shop striking up casual conversation. A man who lives in my building, offering me a smile in the elevator. Aiden is different, though. Knowing he’s watching me, cooking for me, and buying me flowers is more… impactful.
Even with an end date carved in stone, he’s respectful. He’s not forcing me on my knees or yanking my dress off the second I walk through the door. It’s methodical, a process to his plan. And,god, the kisses he’s showered me with tonight are far better than anything at the photo shoot. They’re hotter, a promise behind them. When he lifted me and carried me to the wall, I almost melted on the spot, a precursor to what else will be coming my way.
I notice a white coat hanging in his closet. I move toward it, curious to see if the hospital where he works is written on the polyester. It goes past our boundaries ofstrangers, but I can’t help wondering. My fingers curl around the knob when I hear footsteps behind me.
I turn around to find Aiden leaning against the door frame to his room. He smiles and crosses his arms over his chest. I wonder if he knows he has a drop of marinara on his forehead.
“How’s the snooping going?” he asks.
“I’m disappointed. I was expecting to find much juicier things.”
“What can I say? I’m a boring, middle-aged man. I don’t bring a whole lot to the table.”
“Not true. You can cook boxed pasta. That’s more than a lot of men can say.”
“Fair.” He reaches his hand out. I forget about the lab coat and make my way over to him. He pulls me into a hug and I sigh in his embrace, content. “Want some dessert? Sorry to be the voice of reason, but I thought we could eat some ice cream and talk about expectations for tonight. I’m all for spontaneity, but as someone who got a tattoo they regret to this day, I want to make sure we’re on the same page.”
“Am I finally going to get to see this famed tattoo?”
