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Her snappy retort lightens my churning mind. “I figured you wouldn’t be. I’m not saying either of those. I was going to suggest tea. Chamomile or some shit like that.”

She’s easy on the eyes, a pretty one. Hazel eyes hidden by cat-eye glasses, dark messy hair, and curvy hips perfect for a man to rest his hands on or grab. Even in pajamas and wrapped in a blanket, I know there’s a banging body under there.

“Never been a big tea drinker,” she tells me sadly.

The lazy grin stretches my face. “Let me guess. Anything with excess sugar? I noticed you stayed clear of any kind of soda when you went shopping but you made sure to get coffee creamer. Don’t you know how much fake sweetener is packed in those things?”

“Well, I figured you guys had beer, so why would I need to get drinks? I did get creamer for the coffee. You’re right,” she concedes. “I love sweet things even when I shouldn’t.”

I take another sip of beer and hope the burn will give me some kind of courage even if it’s just in temporary and liquid form.

“You look like the type.”

Her gaze narrows on me and sharpens. “What do you mean?”

“Nothing personal. Just thatmostwomen like sweet things. Gestures and that kind of bleeding heart romanticism.”

Why is it so hard to stop looking at her breasts? Or to ignore the smell of her vanilla-and-rosemary scented shampoo?

“Bleeding heart romanticism,” she teasingly repeats. “I’m sure you lay on the sweetness with your girlfriend.”

“I’ll let you in on a secret.” I crook a finger and keep motioning with it until she nestles in close. “I’m a serial dater. Can’t find anyone I want to settle down with. You'll tellmeI’m the type, now. How you knew it just by looking at me.”

“To be honest, I haven’t given your dating life much thought.”

“Wow, cold, Gilli. Damn cold. Chill me to the bone.”

Our eyes meet briefly. “It’s nothing personal,” she says with a hint of uncertainty.

I elbow her in the side but at least it gets a little chuckle out of her. The girl needs to smile more. She makes a good show of it whenever she’s in the room with us.

No, not us, I mentally correct, withme.

The moment she and Soren share the same air, the room goes thick and I know to keep the knives hidden away.

“You play like you’re a good girl but I’m starting to get the picture. The quiet preteen has become a mouthy woman. How old are you now, Gilli?”

I know damn well how old she is; it’s part of the fun.

She draws in a breath, her nostrils flaring. “I’m officially out of my teenage angst, Aiden. Being a mouthy woman is kind of a rite of passage.”

“A claiming your power kind of deal?” I press. “I notice you don’t talk about yourself much.”

She’s said basically nothing. Tight-lipped about details and her life.

I like to think my charm helps lower her walls a little.

“There isn’t much to tell,” she hedges. “And I don’t like being an open book. There are some cases where it’s better for you to see what you want to see instead of what’s there.”

People see what they want to see with me, too. There’s no help for it.

We all do the same thing, because it’s human nature, and I’ve gotten pretty fucking good at figuring people out. They see my laugh and the wide smile and think I’m one thing when I’m so much more.

“That sounds like a cop-out.” I adjust my seat on the chair, angling until our knees touch. “I think you don’t want people to see you for who you are.”

“Who does?” She rolls her eyes and takes some of the discomfort out of the moment.

I fumble for my beer bottle and realize the damn thing is empty. Not that I need to drink any more despite using my vacation as an excuse to go nuts.