Page 66 of First-Time Caller
I glance down at my bare legs and my dainty bad-luck shoes, then back at him, confused. Aiden is . . . here. Running, apparently. With his hair . . . wet?
Maybe I fell down the stairs in my fancy shoes?
“Your hair is wet,” I point out dumbly.
His left hand reaches up, touching a spot right above his ear.
“Oh,” he says. “Yeah. I took a shower. There was an incident with some penne pasta and a lukewarm beer and . . . You know what? It doesn’t matter.”
There’s a single droplet of water on the column of his neck. I stare at it for a second too long.
“You’re here.”
He nods, his forehead scrunching. “Yeah.”
“You came to the restaurant?”
“I did.”
“Why?”
He looks amused now. “The soup is really good.”
“Oh.” I frown, then look back down the street at the restaurant. “Did you want to go back inside? Get some?”
He shakes his head. “No, Lucie. I don’t want to go back inside for the soup.” He halves the space between us. My stomach swoops and—it’s the wine, probably, that has me feeling this way. All I’ve had to eat is the fancy bread with the fancy butter . . . the cashews . . . and Aiden is here. Inexplicably. “I was thinking I’d take you for a beer. You look like you could use one.”
I narrow my eyes. “Are you implying I look haggard, Aiden?”
He blinks at me. He doesn’t answer the question.
“What, specifically, makes it look like I need a beer?”
Aiden sighs and tilts his head back, staring up at the night sky in exasperation. I stare at the expanse of his throat, the dip between his collarbones, and the gold chain looped around his neck.
“You’re gonna make me work for it, aren’t you?” he murmurs.
“You like it when I make you work for it,” I fire back. Something liquid hot clenches in my belly. “I really don’t have much else going for me tonight.”
He lets his head drop back with a sigh, stepping closer. “Your sad little face makes it look like you need a beer. Happy?”
I frown. “I don’t have a sad face.”
“Is that why you’re frowning?”
“I’m not frowning,” I tell him, still frowning.
“Your sad-girl walk, then,” he says. He turns me around and presses his palm to the small of my back. “You looked like you were marching to the gallows when I was coming down the street.”
“How’d you know it was me?” I ask, letting him guide me to the bar on the corner. The one with flower baskets spilling from the windows. Flame-lit lanterns flickering by the entrance. “There are plenty of sad girls in Baltimore.”
“Ah, Lucie.” Aiden smiles, his fingers fanning out wide against my back. “I’d know you anywhere.”
CELIA BLYTHE:Welcome back toPrimetime Pussycats, Baltimore’s only cat-focused programming. Before the break, Genevieve and I were discussing another Baltimore radio show. Have you guys been tuning in toHeartstrings?
GENEVIEVE POWERS:We’re obsessed.
CELIA BLYTHE:Obsessed.
