“It’s what?”
The idea was to be coy and pressure him into fumbling harder. Except. I must not have been paying attention, because Aiden was suddenly way closer than I’d first thought.
The aisle wasn’t wide to begin with, crates of vinyl stacked to knee height, album covers flashing color between us. Now there was barely a sleeve’s width separating my shirt from his, and I was sure he could feel the way my heart had just spiked into overdrive. If I so much as shifted my weight, I’d be on top of him. If I breathed any harder, he’d feel it on his face.
“Shit.”
“What?”
“Nothing,” I said quickly, my mouth totally dry. In keeping with unexpected ways in which my body had betrayed me.
I tipped my chin up to keep the upper hand, which would’ve worked if my eyes hadn’t dipped just a fraction. His mouth was right there, close enough that I could see the tiny nick in his lower lip, the way it curled when he almost smiled. My brain stalled on it, traitorous and fascinated.
But no. What was I thinking?
I snapped my gaze back up, and realized his clear blue eyes had been set on my lips this whole time.
So we were both guilty.
Aiden cleared his throat right when I was about to say something about that little development. Maybe it was for the best.
“So, what are you hunting for tonight?” His voice was a notch rougher than before, and he crouched to get to the next crate and flip through the records there with unnecessary focus.
Air rushed in where he’d been standing, and I hated that I noticed. That I missed it.
I ignored the sinking feeling settling in my stomach. It was probably better to lean into the relief that we’d both silently agreed to just move on and pretend nothing happened.
“Something classic,” I said, joining him. “You probably won’t know it.”
He smirked. “You sure know how to make a guy feel special.”
And just like that, we were two normal people in a vintage record store again.
“That’s not what I meant,” I said, my guard softening by inches.
It seemed to have the same effect on Aiden, because when he looked at me that smile seemed almost malleable. “I was just fucking with you. And also, I happen to be a fan of the classics.”
He pulled a record from the crate, and brandished it between us. Bowie’sZiggy Stardust.
The jury was out on what the hell was happening between Aiden Santos and me, but in that moment, he’d scored a bazillion points in my book. No matter what the final verdict turned out to be.
“That’s one of my favorites,” I said. “My dad used to play it while he cooked. I think I learned timing from it.”
“Timing for what?”
“Everything,” I said. “Art, conversation, knowing when to shut up.”
“Still working on that last one, huh?”
My body responded all on its own, confused about whether to kiss that shit-eating grin off his face or wrestle him to the floor until he cried ‘Uncle’. I settled for a playful jab to his upper arm that made him sway slightly on his haunches.
Once our laughter subsided, I did the polite thing and asked about the kind of music he liked. A life raft in a sea of landmines we had no business crashing into.
“Growing up, my taste in music was whatever my older siblings had on repeat,” he said. The nostalgia in his voice was laced with something harder, but it was way too soon to go digging there.
So I just said, “Which was…?”
“Alternative. Indie. Some bands no one else cared about.” He slid Bowie back into the crate and continued the blind search for nothing in particular. “My sister was crazy about Madonna—”
