I type back:
I’ll send you a Connect request, and after you accept, you can call me. And see Mochi and Matcha.
I insert a smiling emoji at the end of my sentence and hit send.
Aiden replies with an “OK,” and I immediately tap open the icon for Connectivity on my phone. I type in “Aiden Wentworth” and find two things for him: a public page for fans and then a personal account. I submit a Connect request on his personal account and then pop up from the floor, heading into the bathroom to start my bedtime routine, from taking off my makeup to applying toner … serum … under-eye moisturizer … nighttime moisturizer…
I twist my lips in thought. I wonder if I truly need all this to keep my skin youthful. I’m just out of college. How much could my face possibly age in one year?
But I know why there’s a stupid amount of my paycheck sitting in these bottles and jars on my marble countertop, and it’s not for the mortal fear of aging skin.
I’m a skin-care junkie.
I love a good skin-care routine. There’s something very soothing about following the steps. My skin feels good after I do it, and I like having it as part of my routine twice a day.
Even if I could get the same results with just a cleanser and moisturizer.
Also, I kind of get a rush when testing a new product. Actually, the whole process of buying skin care. Reading about the products. Deciding if they could be good for my skin. Putting them in my online cart and mulling them over. Then purchasing and waiting for them to come in the mail …
I wrinkle my nose. I’m such a weirdo.
I push that thought aside, go through my skin-care routine, and then remove the ponytail holder and pins from my hair. I brush it out, then change into a T-shirt and shorts and climb into bed. I put my phone on my charging stand and angle it toward me, then sit up against my pillows and headboard, and wait for Aiden to call.
I pick up my Kindle and open the book I’m reading, but I can’t concentrate on it to save my life.
Buzz!
My phone lights up, and I see Aiden is trying to make a Video Connect. I answer his call, trying to ignore how excited I am.
I’m about to say “hey” when I’m stunned into silence. Aiden has changed into a white T-shirt that stretches tight across his chest. He’s wearing a black baseball cap backward, sitting in what appears to be his living room.
Oh, he looks so good in that backward baseball hat. And he’s so hot in that white T-shirt that’s hugging his athletic body.
“You look ready for bed,” Aiden says.
“I will be in a bit. I have to go to work tomorrow. But it’s the offseason, so I can go in later, which is nice.”
“Very nice,” he says.
“Is Wyatt not home yet?” I ask.
Aiden furrows his brow. “Wyatt?”
“I assumed you two lived together.”
“Negative. I lived with him when I first arrived in Miami, but there’s no way I could ever live with Wyatt on a permanent basis.”
“Really? How come?”
“How much time do you have?”
“Enough time for you to tell me,” I declare.
Aiden pushes down on his baseball hat. “Let me start by saying Wyatt and I are close. We’d be best friends even if we weren’t brothers. But we live completely different lifestyles. He was a mess. Like if he changed his shirt, he dropped it wherever he was and left it there. It never made it to a laundry hamper. If he drank a coffee in the living room, the cup would stay there until the maid came or I gave up and took it to the kitchen sink.”
I make a face. “That would drive me crazy.”
“It did drive me crazy. Wyatt is also into hooking up—hey, good for him, but I walked in on more naked women than I care to count.”
