“Don’t be ridiculous, Gem. It’s not just coffee. I’m gonna bring you lunch, too.”
She stops dead in her tracks, spinning around on one heel to face me angrily.
“This isn’t a joke, Aaron.”
God, it’s been too long since I’ve heard my name on her lips. I don’t even care that she made it sound like a curse word.
I make a concerted effort to keep my hands to myself, gripping the coffee cup in one hand, putting the other in my pocket so I don’t reach out to touch her, frame her face, hold any part of her she’ll let me. “I’m not joking, Gem. I’m gonna be here for you. Whatever you need. It’s my turn to take care of you. And yes, that includes coffee, lunch…dinners if you’ll let me. For starters.” I look up at her hopefully, my head tilted to one side, and she looks away quickly, her eyes flitting to the road behind me as a car drives by slowly.
This hint of a smile peeks out on one corner of her mouth, and I know she’s fighting letting me see the rest of it. I’ll take it. “As long as you’re not cooking any of those meals, Stone. I don’t need to end up in the hospital. Again.”
I let out an embarrassing chuckle-snort combo, not expecting her to be lighthearted with me yet. “You give someone food poisoningone time, and suddenly it’s a reputation. Sheesh.” I roll my eyes playfully, like I’ve been put upon by the teasing. It’s better than remembering the horror, the fear at how sick my first and only attempt at chicken Alfredo made her a few years back. She hasn’t taken care of all our meals just because she was my assistant. No, that was out of preservation, survival instincts. Anything my chef didn’t prepare for me or us, Gemma did.
“Only you could fuck up a salad to the point you’ve hospitalized someone, Stone.” God what I wouldn’t do to hear more of that humor in her voice.
Believe it or not, we’re pretty sure it was the tomatoes in the salad that did it, in the end. I guess there’s something called cross contamination? And I cut the tomatoes for the salad on the same cutting board as the chicken for the dish and, well, you get the rest. My best friend ended up hospitalized with salmonella. It wasn’t my finest hour, but after that, I was banned from making any of our meals. Some punishment, tbh, but still. She’s got a fair point with that caveat.
I hold up the pinky of my free hand to her face, in offering. It takes her a second, but she offers me hers in return, linking with mine, and we make a solemn pact on it. I’ll bring her food, but I willnotbe cooking any of it. My stomach jumps at the contact between us, and I ignore it. I can still feel her hair against my lips from the goodbye I stole from her last night, still feel her scent in my nostrils, like vanilla and something flowery. The feel of her finger on mine is making me appreciate those regency films a little more than I did last time my agent got sent a script sent to my attention. Maybe I’ll read the next one that comes my way after all; there’s something to this pinky flirting shit.
I let a wide grin break out on my face, only half-concealed by our joined hands, and she gives in to hers as well (smaller than mine, but a win is a win—you could let the other team score forty-five points against you in the bowl game, but if you get just one more than them, it’s all over) before breaking apart from me and stomping off to her car.
I jog to my G-Wagen and follow her the entire way to the library, not entirely sure she would’ve told me which one it was if I’d asked, so following her is my best bet. Don’t give her an extra chance to turn me down. She might still tell me to get fucked, but we’ll see.
We hit one longer red light on the way, and I use that couple of minutes as a chance to open the Amazon app and order two dozen Stanley travel mugs that are guaranteed to keep her coffeewarm for several hours. They’ll be at my house tonight, so this mishap doesn’t happen again tomorrow morning. (Eight-thirty, schmeight-schmirty, I wouldn’t put it past her to leave early to spite me, make sure I don’t get the chance to see her and win her over another iota in the morning. Not taking that chance, thank you very much.)
When she sees me park a few spots down from her in the lot at the library, she shoots me an exasperated look through our respective car windows, and I shoot her a smile that’s landed me the cover of a couple different magazines in the last year.
She makes her way to what I’m assuming is the back door—no way some rando off the street is gonna find a way in through this thing—and doesn’t look back at me as I follow her, but I know she feels me close behind. Her shoulders are extra stiff, her head held higher than usual, and she’s tossed her hair back no less than three times in the fifty-foot walk.
When she’s unlocked the door and propped it open with one of her booted feet, she turns around to face me again. Confront me is probably a more accurate description.
“What are youdoing?” she hiss-whispers at me (not really to me).
“Accompanying you,” I answer sweetly, innocently. Good-naturedly.
“I don’t needaccompanying,” she insists.
I lean in a little closer than I should, keeping her eyes on mine and relishing the signs of the effect my presence is having on her. “What if I need to be close to you?” I ask her in a whisper.
Her gorgeous honey-and-whiskey eyes narrow on me briefly before she retorts, “You’re impossible, Stone.”
But she turns around and walks inside, so I follow. I let out an impressed whistle as I take the place in, Gem walking ahead of me, flipping lights as she goes.
“You run this place?” I ask, my admiration coloring my words.
“I help,” she replies stiffly.
It’s pretty damn big, actually. There’s a large open space in the center, shit tons of shelves, obviously (stacksshe tells me they’re called), with smaller, private rooms (presumably for studying? Seems like a fun place to hook up if I’m being honest) lining one of the walls. The ceiling in the middle of the room is so tall, I have to let my head fall back to take it in. There’s a balcony up there where I can see more shelves—stacks, I correct myself—running around the perimeter. An elevator and a set of stairs are next to each other not far from the front desk, which overlooks the main workspaces, computer area, and glass front doors. It’s large, clean, more modern than I’d expected, and inviting.
I pick out the space I want to be mine for the foreseeable future, and amble over to it, dropping my phone and keys down on the table’s surface and plopping into a chair, legs extended, making myself comfy. Naturally, I picked a spot facing the front desk, facing her, so I have the best view in the house.
She tries not to pay me any attention as she runs around the place, going through what looks to be a pretty well-oiled morning routine for opening up shop, but eventually her curiosity gets the better of her.
“What are you doing?” she asks, a hint of annoyance present. I suspect it’s gonna take me a while to work that out of her, but I know what I’m in for. She’s not scaring me off.
“Getting comfy,” I tell her, smiling over at her.
She gives in, storming over to me and leaning down, placing both hands on the table, arms fully extended, glaring at me. “You think you’re just going to sit here and what? Watch me work all day? Start a teenybopper riot when word gets out thatAaron Stoneis here?” She uses air quotes when she says my name, which kinda hurts.
