Page 12 of Flashpoint
Aiden walks me to my car in the fading afternoonlight. The crowd has dispersed, leaving behind trampled grass and the lingering smell of hot dogs from the concession stand.
"You survived," he says.
"Barely." I fish my keys from my pocket. "I think Mrs. Delgado from the garden club is planning our wedding. She mentioned a spring ceremony would be lovely."
"Spring's nice." His mouth quirks. "Good weather for outdoor receptions."
"Don't even joke about that."
"Who's joking? I look great in a tux."
I roll my eyes, but there's no heat in it. Somewhere between the Wade confrontation and the riverside conversation, the sharp edges of our antagonism have worn smooth. Not gone—I don't think we'll ever be people who agree easily—but different. Manageable.
Maybe even enjoyable.
"Same time next week?" Aiden asks. "Hazel mentioned something about a school visit."
"Elementary school. Apparently, we're supposed to read a fire safety book to second graders."
"Sounds terrifying."
"You'll be fine. Kids love you." The words come out before I canstop them.
His smile shifts, going warmer. "Yeah?"
"Don't let it go to your head."
"Too late."
He opens my car door with exaggerated chivalry. "Your chariot awaits, m'lady."
"You're ridiculous."
"Part of my charm."
I slide into the driver's seat, hyperaware of how close he's standing. The car door frames him against the sunset, gilding his edges in orange and gold like some kind of romance novel cover. Which is an absolutely absurd thought that I'm immediately suppressing.
"Drive safe, Pritchard."
"Always do."
He steps back, and I pull out of the parking lot thinking about fifty-three years with someone who started as an enemy, and whether that elderly woman knows something I don't.
Chapter 4
Aiden
The knock on my apartment door comes at exactly 7 PM, because of course Riley Pritchard arrives precisely on time. The woman probably schedules her bathroom breaks.
I take one last look around my living room, suddenly self-conscious in a way I haven't been since high school. The exposed brick looks fine. The bookshelves are organized. The espresso machine is primed and ready. Everything's in order.
So why do my palms feel like I'm about to give a presentation to the city council?
I wipe my hands on my jeans, mutter "get it together" under my breath, and open the door.
Riley stands in the hallway wearing jeans and a soft gray sweater instead of her usual professional armor. Her hair is down—actually down, not scrapedback into that severe bun—and my brain stalls for a second at the sight.
She looks... soft. Approachable. Like a completely different person from the woman who accused me of posting thirst traps four days ago.
