Page 75 of First-Time Caller
“Lucie,” he says back, a laugh hidden behind his eyes.
“Don’t flirt with me,” I tell him.
Whatever guards Aiden usually holds around himself are softened in the early morning light spilling through the stained-glass windows at the front of my house. He watches me in amusement. “I’vebeenflirting with you.”
“Since when?”
“Since I made a vague innuendo about oral surgery, give or take a couple of hours.”
“Oh,” I say. Then, “Really?”
He nods, another wide yawn pressed against the back of his hand. His body goes tense against my couch and then relaxes. I can’t believe I’m staring at Aiden. On my couch. “You’ve been flirting back,” he says.
My forehead creases. “Have I?”
He nods. I think of the light, glowy feeling I get every time I slip into the booth. How I always seem to be looking for him. The thrill I get every time I tease him about his unofficial uniform of sweatshirts and dark denim, or his Post-it Notes, or his horrific taste in music. He played Hoobastanktwice. I refuse to believe that was a mistake.
I guess I have been flirting with him.
“Should we—should we stop?”
He stares at me, his face unreadable. “Yeah,” he says slowly. “We probably should.”
“Because we’re not compatible,” I explain without prompting. “Because I’m looking for a relationship and you’re—”
“Not relationship material,” he finishes gruffly. It seems like Aiden is more fundamentally opposed to investing in a relationship than beingrelationship material, but fine. He’s nursing old wounds. I can’t judge him for that.
He scrubs at his face. “It’s just a crush. Because we’re spending so much time together.” He drops his hands to his lap. “It’ll fade.”
“Yeah,” I agree, ignoring the flush of disappointment making my cheeks hot. I look down at my feet. “Yeah,” I say again.
“I’ll stop if you stop.”
I scoff. “That’s not how this works.”
One dark eyebrow rises on his forehead. He looks like a jungle cat. Some other massive predator. “It’s exactly how this works. You stop twisting your hair back in the booth and I—”
“Twisting myhair?” I interrupt. “You mean braiding it?”
He nods. “Yeah. Stop braiding your hair in the booth and I’ll stop flirting with you.”
“Aiden, that’s not—” I take a second to collect myself. “That’s not flirting. That’s—I’m just pulling my hair back.”
His hand flexes on my couch cushion. “Stop braiding your hair in the booth and I’ll stop flirting with you,” he says again, a hint of demand in his voice. I swallow and shift.
A fragment of a conversation floats back to me.
You’re bossy.
I certainly can be.
My chest feels tight. I’m aware of every place on my body that this dress doesn’t cover. Ankles, knees, thighs. I’m sure I look like a raccoon that’s been in some sort of street fight over a pizza crust after sleeping on the couch in full makeup, but Aiden is looking at me like I’m a bag of contraband coffee shoved into a cookie tin.
“Lucie,” he starts. “I—”
“Hello, Queen of the Night,” bellows a voice from my kitchen. My eyes slip shut with a frustrated sigh. Grayson. “I’m here for the full debrief. Spare no detail!”
I need a deadlock on my back door. Maybe one of those childproof things underneath the handle so he can’t wiggle his way in. I fantasize about moving to Puerto Rico. In my head, I’m splayed out like a starfish on a lounger with a frozen drink in my hand. I turn my head and there’s a tanned body stretched out next to mine. Dark hair. Stubble. A gold chain around his neck.
