Page 100 of First-Time Caller
I flop back down on my bed with a sigh and toss my arm over my eyes. “No.”
“Seems that way.”
“It’s not that way,” I grumble, feeling stupid. Nothing about that kiss felt contrived or planned. I know that. “I just—I didn’t realize people were talking about us. Like that.”
“I wouldn’t think too much of it.” I hear the sound of fabric rustling in the background. I imagine him in bed, one arm tucked behind his head with his phone pressed to his ear. I wonder what he wears to sleep. If he keeps the chain around his neck. “People like to create narratives around that sort of thing. For about six months when I first started, people thought Jackson and I were hiding an illicit affair.”
“Were you?”
“Nah, he’s not my type.” Sheets rustle again. “I prefer leggy brunettes who steal my coffee.”
I bite my lip against my smile. “Aiden.”
“Lucie.” He singsongs my name, a hint of amusement.
I want to tell him to stop. That he shouldn’t. But the words stick in my throat. I like how I feel when I have Aiden’s attention on me. I trace the edge of my comforter with my thumb. “So that kiss tonight wasn’t an elaborate plan to keep viewers interested in the show?”
“I don’t know how it could be, seeing as how listeners won’t ever know it happened.” He must adjust his phone because his voice sounds closer. Rougher. “That was for me and you. No one else.”
“Good.”
“Yeah,” he says. “Good.” He’s quiet for the stretch of several seconds and my eyes flutter closed. I listen to him breathing and picture him in the space next to me. One arm shoved under the pillow, the other heavy on my hip beneath the blankets. Scruff and sleep-warm skin and our legs twisted together.
“Must not have kissed you all that well,” he grumbles, making my stomach flip, “if you feel the need to ask me that question.”
I wiggle down farther in my bed, feet kicking. “You were fine.”
He scoffs. “Fine?”
“Proficient, I’d say.”
“Oh, good. That’s much better.”
I grin up at my ceiling.
Aiden releases a sigh. “I kissed you because I wanted to, Lucie. I’vebeenwanting to and I think—I think I got tired of pretending I don’t. My crush isn’t going anywhere. I think it would be easier for us both if it was, but . . . it’s not. That’s what I should have told you when I walked you to your car, but I think I left my brain in the studio.”
“Me too.” I rub my fingertips against my lips. Touch lightly at the edge of my smile. “The crush thing,” I explain. “All of it.”
“All right.” He blows out a breath. “That’s settled. Now we can move on to more important matters.”
I roll to my side and tuck my legs to my chest, wedging my phone between my ear and my pillow. “Such as?”
“What are you wearing?”
Heat bursts in my cheeks and I bury my laugh in my pillow. “Aiden.”
“What? That’s a platonic question.”
“Is it? Have you ever asked Jackson what he’s wearing?”
“All the time, so we can coordinate.”
“Okay, then I guess I have to answer.”
He hums his agreement. “It would be rude not to.”
I glance down at my oversized T-shirt. Some of the stains on it are more than a decade old. This was one of the few shirts I still managed to fit in when I was nine months pregnant with Maya, and I’m too sentimental to get rid of it.
