Page 3

Three

Aiden

Make a wish.

Make a wish.

If she knew the thought that crossed my mind, so close to my teenage fantasies, to this gorgeous woman with curves for days who positively vibrates with brightness and energy—despite it being the middle of the night—she’d likely be hightailing it to the door.

Or maybe not, considering she was the one who showed up to my condo, a marriage contract in hand.

She shifts slightly and my eyes fly open, a curl of worry slicing through me.

Is she going to disappear just as quickly as she appeared?

Flit back out of my life like this is a bizarre dream and I’ll wake up in a couple of hours, hockey on the brain, a job to do…

Alone.

But I’m not alone now.

I can hear her, smell her, want her.

I blow out the candles, watch her stormy gray eyes warm, as though the sun is peeking through thunderclouds, beams of light illuminating the sky.

Beautiful.

“Great!” she exclaims, startling me and I jerk myself out of my thoughts.

Before I can say anything to make this interaction make sense, she turns away, starts opening drawers, the noises of one flying open and then slamming closed then another and another making me jump.

“Um,” I begin.

Begin because anything I was going to say is cut off by another crash .

“Luna—”

Another drawer opens. Then closes.

“I—”

“Found it!” she exclaims, holding up a fork. Then her brows pull together, an adorable vee forming that I want to press my lips to, want to smooth away with my thumb. “Is there a reason your utensils are next to your cleaning supplies? That seems like an accidental poisoning waiting to happen.”

Right.

I’m not really up for a conversation regarding my utensil placement at three in the morning.

But if this Luna is the same Luna I grew up with a decade ago bringing that—albeit logical—point up, me trying to explain that my moving in just consisted of me dumping shit in random drawers isn’t going to fly.

Pretty soon we’ll be reorganizing my kitchen and distracting her from that task will be a lesson in futility.

Once she gets something into her head, she’s like a dog to a bone.

A really big, really tasty bone.

I don’t have a battle in me tonight.

So, I go for diversion before she digs up that bone.

“Why’d you only grab one?”

That vee between her eyes deepens and she tilts her head to the side, studying me. “What?”

“That’s a big ass cupcake, tiny tornado, and it’s the middle of the night.” I move over to her, snag a knife and a second fork, tapping her lightly on the shoulder with the fork before I open the cabinet above her head and grab out two plates. “So we’re going to share.”

There’s a long pause.

Long enough for me to pull out the candles, set them in the top of the plastic container, and start slicing the giant cupcake in half.

Should I be eating this in the middle of the night when I have a game tomorrow— er —today?

Nope. Definitely not.

Does it look too good to pass up?

Definitely yes.

And, fuck it.

It’s my birthday.

I’m eating a fucking cupcake.

“We’re going to share?”

Her tone is so strange, so not the Luna I remember that I glance over at her, trying to ferret out why it sounds wrong.

But the moment my eyes hit hers she glances away and I lose out on any hope of that.

Hmm.

“Yeah, Luns,” I say. “We’re going to share.”

She looks back, and it’s like a different woman’s appeared—light and bright has returned, and her smile is wide, glazed over and confident, but fake. “Well,” she says lightly, “if you’re sharing, I get the bigger half.”

I snort, know the moment’s passed.

If she doesn’t want to explain, she’ll keep that shit locked down.

And it’s late.

I have hockey tomorrow—today. I don’t have time for decades old contracts or arguing about sharing a cupcake or reorganizing my kitchen or figuring out how in the fuck Luna found me now, after all this time.

So instead of arguing, I just keep slicing, peeling back the paper and lifting one half—the bigger half—onto one of the plates. “Eat, tiny tornado,” I order softly, holding it up.

Gray eyes on mine.

Holding. Searching.

I know mine are likely as unfathomable as hers were moments ago.

But I don’t lower the plate.

And I know when she realizes that I’m not playing around either, that my stubborn streak has come out, that I’m not eating this alone.

Do I know why I haven’t addressed the whole getting married thing? Nope.

Or maybe it’s another yes, but I don’t want to address it situation.

Either way, she takes the plate.

I serve up the other half, plunk it onto the plate, and break off a chunk with my fork, shoving it into my mouth.

And promptly moaning.

God, what’s it about store-bought cake with heaps of buttercream that tastes so damned good?

Nostalgia, I guess.

I open my eyes, scoop up another bite, and shove it into my mouth. Then freeze when I see she’s watching me.

Closely.

Intently.

“What?” I ask through my bite.

She tilts her head to the side again and my heart pulses. Cute. She was always cute. And tempting. And…left me obsessed.

Wanting.

But I’m not a teenager now.

I’m a grown man. I’m in control of my emotions, my feelings, my obsessions.

Except apparently, when she moves toward me, setting her plate beside mine, lifting a hand and placing the palm lightly on my chest.

My heart beats faster.

My dick twitches.

My brain conveniently forgets about the whole marriage contract thing.

Especially when she murmurs, “You haven’t changed at all, have you?”