No. Not the subway.
Herapartment.
Fucker’s walking her home.
“Follow them,” I command.
Indira hesitates. “Sir, shouldn’t—”
“Follow. Them.”
15
Bree
The walk home with Aiden is nice.
Nice.
That’s the word, isn’t it? Nice. Pleasant. Comfortable. Like a warm bath or a good cup of tea or a Sunday afternoon with nowhere to be.
He’s telling me about some nonprofit project in the Bronx, and I’m nodding along because it genuinely sounds meaningful.
This is what I want.
This is what Ishouldwant.
A man who asks questions and listens to the answers. Not... Nico.
“You cold?” Aiden asks, noticing me shiver.
“Just the wind.”
“Here.” He shrugs off his jacket and drapes it over my shoulders before I can protest.
This is how a real gentleman behaves.
We reach my building. The familiar brick facade, the stone steps up to the vestibule, the buzzer system that works maybe sixty percent of the time.
Home.
Such as it is.
“I had a really good time tonight,” Aiden says, turning to face me on the stoop.
I smile. “Me, too.”
And I did. Really did.
The wine was good.
The conversation was easy.
I laughed at things that were actually funny instead of things I was nervous about.
For three hours, I forgot about Nico Rossi and his ice-cold dismissals.
“Maybe we could do this again sometime?” Aiden’s smile is warm and uncomplicated. “There’s this new Thai place in Brooklyn. Let’s say Thursday?”
