“He’s notthatbroody, but I can kind of see what you’re saying,” I admit.
Aiden is right outside the bus doors, guiding stragglers onto the buses. He bends, listens to someone, then jogs off. Moments later, he returns with a stuffed moose. Then, as quickly as he reappeared, he’s gone.
The bus lights flicker once, then steady, like the whole Ridge, not just us, is curious how this story will play out. Unfortunately for all of us, I can’t let it go anywhere.
But that doesn’t stop me from craning my neck to see where he’s gone.
Abby elbows me, and as I go to shoo her away, she hisses, “Look!” in my ear.
I turn my head in time to see Aiden lumbering down the aisle, directly towards me. My pulse hammers out a nervous rhythm, increasing in intensity to the point I’m worried for my heart. It feels like I just took a hardcore spin class at the local gym.
Phoebe’s friend Grace is only a few rows ahead of us, and apparently, the owner of the missing moose. As he reaches out to give it back to her, she scrambles across her classmate to throw her arms around his neck. His eyes widen, but he doesn’t try to peel her off either.
It’s adorable the way he awkwardly stands there, unsure what to do with his arms. My resistance is waning the longer I sit here.
That’s not good.
When she lets go, his attention refocuses, and he’s searching the bus, his eyes roving row by row until they land on me. Relief flickers across his face, quick but unguarded, before it’s smoothed away.
I suck my lower lip into my mouth, dragging my teeth across it in nervousness.
Nope. Attraction was definitely not the problem. Between those blue eyes and his dark beard, I’d have to be dead not to feel something.
He’s broody and beautiful.
I can still smell the smoky undertones that cling to him, and my breath hitches.
“He’s literally a lumberjack demigod. Do those exist?” Abby hisses in my ear. “Never mind. They have to. Just look at him.”
I want to smack her arm and tell her that our next book club read has to be anything but romance, but with Aiden’s eyes boring a hole in my soul, I can’t do it.
Lumberjack demigod fits the bill, to a tee.
“I don’t know,” I murmur, heat creeping up my neck.
“He’s looking right at you,” Abby whispers.
I’m well aware. And he isn’t just looking at me, he’s heading straight for me.
“Hope the kids didn’t give you too much trouble today,” he says to Abby, before turning his attention entirely to me. “I know you’re about to get on the road, but I just wanted to see if we could sit down soon. Maybe grab some coffee? I think we have some things to talk about.”
My mouth is so dry, I’m convinced I haven’t had water in days.
I’m flattered, overwhelmed, and terrified—because wanting to say yes feels instinctive. And that’s dangerous.
Since when does he take time to do anything outside of the farm during busy season? What could he possibly want to talk about with me?
Why are there still so many feelings here after a decade apart?
He’s here. He asked. And for reasons I don’t want to examine too closely, that feels like it matters.
It’s ridiculous that one little effort—a request for coffee, a “we should talk”—makes something in my chest sit up like it’s hearing the opening notes of a favorite story again.
If this were one of Abby’s romance novels, this is the part where the heroine agrees to some ridiculous bargain with the broody tree-farm king and calls it self-preservation.
“I’ve got a pretty busy schedule over the next few weeks,” I answer, struggling to keep my voice even.
Out of the corner of my eye, Abby’s mouth hangs open. I wish she’d give us some privacy, but that’s not in her DNA.
