“You wouldn’t.”
He shrugs, gives me a cocky grin. “I’m a shallow, commitment-phobic man, but I’m not blind. That woman’s a prize.”
Miles Davis advisesnot to be afraid.
“I know. And she’s mine. I just have to prove it.”
The record scratches to an end.
Time to man up, Aiden.
Time to get your girl.
Time to make her forget you had your tongue down another woman’s throat.
Time to convince her to forgive you, even if you’ll never be able to forgive yourself.
CHAPTER 21
Mia
When I see him—six foot two, sleeves rolled up, sunglasses hooked onto the collar of his shirt, crouched beside the craft table helping four-year-old Olivia Jacobs make pipe-cleaner dragonflies—I nearly drop the basket of sunscreen and bug spray I’m carrying.
There’s glitter on his forearm and a bright yellow sticker on his chest that says “HELLO, MY NAME IS: AIDEN.” There is a heart over the letter I in his name. A pink one.
Olivia is giving him serious instructions on wing symmetry, and he’s nodding like she’s an expert in aerodynamics.
Of all the places I thought I’dbumpinto Aiden, it wasn’t at the Little Luminaries Spring Fundraiser. We hold it every May to raise money for our summer enrichment programs—nature walks, gardening kits, languageclasses, and healthy lunches for kids who don’t have access to them when school’s out.
There’s face painting under the maple trees, lemonade stands with biodegradable cups, and kids giggling over hula hoops and scavenger hunts.
“Mia,” a colleague says with what is a combination of awe and envy. “Your husband is magic with the kids. He got two of the grumpiest four-year-olds to share a cookie.”
Almost ex-husband!
And that’s a good thing, right?
He’s so good with kids, and maybe now he can have his own with someone who can have them.
My heart aches at the thought.
The idea of him being a father—and Diana slipping into that role—still hits me like a punch to the gut. I hate that she still lives rent-free in my head, even after everything, even after I know he’s done with her.
You’re making progress, Mia. You know she’s not the threat anymore. It just takes time to let go of the ghost of her.
I press my palms against my thighs, steadying myself.
Get it together, Mia. You’re at work. Having a nervous breakdown with little kids around is a serious no-no.
I take a steadying breath, and walk over to him, my heartbeat louder than the cheerful, child-friendly music playing from a tinny Bluetooth speaker.
He sees me. Stands. His eyes warm.
“Hey,” he greets, like we’re meeting on a sunny sidewalk and not on the Little Luminaries’ playground,which is strung with paper sunflowers and smells like cotton candy.
“What are you doing here?” I ask, genuinely baffled.
“The city email newsletter mentioned the Little Luminaries fundraiser. I made a donation, but”—he shrugs nervously—“I thought showing up would be better. Is it okay that I’m here?”
