Page 76 of First-Time Caller
I really shouldn’t have had those shots last night.
“There’s no need to yell, Dad.” Maya’s voice floats through the doorway and I resign myself to dying of embarrassment in front of my child.
“I know you’re dying to hear the juice, Maya bean. You don’t need to play it cool when it’s just us. You’re not a teenager yet. You can show enthusiasm. It won’t—whoa.”
Grayson skids to a stop in my living room, an apple from my fruit basket in his hand. His eyes ping-pong from me in my short green dress to Aiden sprawled on the couch to me again. His gaze snags on the heap of blanket on Aiden’s lap and a grin starts to climb his stupid face.
“Holy shit,” he whispers.
Maya appears around his arm. She’s wearing a pinch-front fedora and she’s got scruff drawn over her jaw with . . . mascara, I think. My mascara, probably. Her curly hair is pulled back into a severe bun beneath the hat. There’s a whip at her hip. Clearly, I forgot about cosplay day.
Grayson immediately covers her eyes like he’s just found me straddling Aiden on the couch.
“Dad.” Maya sighs. “You’re going to mess up my makeup.”
“Grayson,” I add. “Don’t be weird.”
Aiden stands, the blanket bunched in his arms, a question carved into the lines by his eyes. “Um,” he says. “Hello?”
He winces and I have to bury my amusement in my fist. At least I’m not suffering alone. Maya tugs at Grayson’s hand until she can peek over the top of his fingers. Aiden blinks at her. I watch him catalog the hat, the beard, the whip looped around her belt. A delighted smile appears on his handsome, sleepy face.
“Dr. Jones.” He nods.
She beams at him. My heart does something stupid in my chest.
“Are you my mom’s date from last night? William?” she asks. Without missing a beat, she adds, “Did you guys have a sleepover?”
“That’s not William and it sure does look like they had a sleepover, doesn’t it?” Grayson is enjoying this entirely too much. Aiden shifts on his feet, looking surprisingly comfortable despite the circumstances. I thought an inquisition from a twelve-year-old would have him breaking out in hives, but he’s just standing there taking it in. In his T-shirt with his . . . arms. His bare arms with the . . . muscles. He must have taken off his shoes last night before I forced him onto the couch because he’s wearing two mismatched socks. One is blue and the other is bright red.
It’s cute.
“Who are you, then?” Maya asks, her tact left somewhere at her father’s house, I guess.
“I’m Aiden,” he answers simply. He gives me an inscrutable look I can’t begin to decipher before he tosses the blanket on the couch and takes two steps forward. “It’s good to finally meet you. Your mom talks about you all the time.”
“I recognize your voice,” she says slowly. She tips her hat up her forehead, squinting at his face. “You’re Aiden Valentine.”
He nods. “And you’re Maya, orchestrator of grand schemes. Have you considered a future in radio?”
“I’m thinking about archaeology, actually.”
Aiden laughs. It’s warm and rough. Sleep-worn. “I can see that.”
“Yeah,” she agrees immediately, bouncing on her toes. She is two seconds away from laying out her entire ten-year plan. Her mouth opens, then snaps shut. Her eyes narrow and dart to me. With her faux scruff, she looks so much like Grayson that I have to swallow my laugh.
“Wait,” she says. “What is Aiden Valentine doing in the living room?”
“Yeah,” Grayson echoes. “Excellent question. What is Aiden Valentine doing in the living room?”
Aiden glances at me, hesitant. I shrug. Might as well lean in.
“Would you like to stay for breakfast?” I ask him.
I shuffle upstairs to change into an old sweatshirt and a pair of faded flannel pants, Aiden’s eyes lingering on them when I reappear in the kitchen with a bottle of ibuprofen extended in his direction.
“What?” I ask, watching a slow smile work its way across his face. Aiden’s smiles are almost always uneven, his bottom lip tugging sharper on the left. It’s like his face is unused to the expression, warming up to it the more he does it.
His fingertips brush against mine when he grabs the plastic bottle. I tug my hand back like I’ve been burned, folding it into the sleeve of my sweatshirt. “What?” I ask again.
