Page 6

Six

Luna

Last thing I remember is thinking that R, S, T, L, N, and E aren’t all that helpful when my brain is inching toward sleep.

Now, I feel rested.

Pleasantly warm and my head is cushioned on something that’s not strictly soft, but also isn’t so hard that it’s left me rising to consciousness with a crick in my neck.

Instead, I woke up because…I’m refreshed?

Which is strange.

I can’t remember the last time I connected more than three or four hours in a row.

At first, it was because Grams needed something in the middle of the night—medication or help to the bathroom. Then it was because I was worried she wasn’t waking me up, that something had happened, even though the night nurse was caring for her.

Then it was because I worried if I slept I would wake up and she’d be gone and?—

I’d have missed it.

My last chance at telling her I love her, at holding her hand, at being by her side.

And after…was the funeral, the burial, clearing out her room and…reading the will.

Realizing that she could still affect my life, even from the other side.

Now, as I open my eyes, I realize why I’m comfortable, why I slept more than those aforementioned three or four hours.

I’m not at home—not at Gram’s place, not even at the family home where my brother and dad live, boundaries trodden on, privacy not respected, and sleeping hours certainly not abided by.

When I lived with them there was always a coffee grinder going or cabinets being slammed or knocks on my door because they need something from me.

So, Gram’s place was the natural conclusion. Plus, it was the only house that ever felt like home anyway. It’s just…it hasn’t been easy to hold on to for a girl making twenty dollars an hour.

Neither is paying the crippling lawyer fees, especially when I’m cut off from the family coffers.

Thus, my father and brother’s war on wearing me down, on getting me to give in has continued.

And I’m stuck.

But…for once I’m not in my own bed, dealing with their bullshit.

I’m rested and?—

A soft snore.

I’m with Aiden .

In his arms. In his?—

I finally process what I’m seeing.

Aiden’s bedroom.

Navy walls, gray curtains on the windows, mahogany furniture. A mirror on the far wall, a—I shift slightly, trying to see, my lips curving when I do. The man has an area rug, thick and plush and patterned.

With swirls of blue and gray.

There’s art on the walls—a cityscape that gives tribute to Baltimore, where he played for the Breakers, and also one of this coast, depicting the craggy cliffs that surround the Pacific, worn into complex patterns over thousands and thousands of years of wind and rain and waves.

A rug. Art. Curtains. Matching furniture.

He really is all grown up.

“What are you smiling about?”

I jerk then shift again, this time in the circle of Aiden’s arms, finding his eyes open, the emerald depths sparkling with curiosity. He lifts a hand, traces lightly along the curve of my mouth, and I’m a little surprised to find that I am smiling.

“You have a rug.”

His brow lifts.

“And matching curtains and a furniture set and”—I tug lightly at the covers—“an actual bedspread and corresponding sheets.”

Now his mouth curves. “And that’s worth smiling about?”

“You’re all grown up, Aiden Black.”

“Sheets and a rug?” He laughs. “That’s all it takes?”

“Yup.” I shrug as well as I’m able. “Or, well, those and the curtains and the matching furniture and the artwork.”

He chuckles, shakes his head, lightly tapping the tip of my nose. “What about your bedroom? What color are the sheets?”

I don’t mean to. It just…slips out. “Why?” I tease. “So you can imagine me naked in them later?”

His eyes go molten, burning into mine. “No, sweetheart,” he murmurs, sliding one big, warm hand along my side. “If I’m going to imagine you anywhere, it’s beneath me in my bed.”

“But you…” My brow furrows even as my body inches closer to his, seeking out the heat and strength of him.

“I what?” he presses.

I nibble my lip but don’t bother prevaricating. This is Aiden. My Aiden. “You stopped us last night.”

His expression gentles, that hand stills, resting on my hip, thumb tracing back and forth, back and forth. “I don’t think you were in the right frame of mind, do you?”

He’s right.

I was…

Well, not in the right frame of mind is pretty much the nicest thing that someone could say about the tangle of desperation and need, desire and fondness and attraction for the man I’m currently sprawled half on top of.

“And that adorable wrinkle of your nose tells me that I’m right but you don’t want to admit it.”

My nose wrinkles further.

He chuckles. Then taps the tip of it. “So… that marriage contract.”

I tense.

Which is precisely the wrong thing to do.

It tells him his fishing expedition is right.

And I’m not ready to talk about it—don’t have a good excuse to make him forget all about it before I take myself and my problems back out of his life.

So, I enact evasive maneuvers.

“Aiden?” I ask softly.

“Yeah, Luns?”

God, I love that he still hardly ever calls me my real name—it’s always Luns or sweetheart or tiny tornado (though I’m not so tiny any longer).

Focus.

“So was the whole stopping the kiss thing last night because you were being a gentleman?” I ask, settling my hand on his chest, feeling the muscles there tighten. “Or,” I whisper, “was it because I was doing something you didn’t want?”

His hand on my hip tightens and then he draws me a little closer.

Close enough for me to feel the hard length of his erection.

“Does that feel like you were doing something I don’t want?”

I shrug as well as I’m able to in this position. “That proves nothing.”

One second, he’s beneath me.

The next, he’s rolled up, pinning me into the mattress, hot green eyes on mine. “No?” he asks, parting my thighs and sinking more heavily onto me.

“Nope,” I say, popping the p. My mouth twitches, even though I try to affect seriousness.

“No?” His eyes dance.

“Nope,” I repeat. “That’s just morning wood.”

“Morning—” His mouth drops open and he freezes, gaping at me. Then he does the most wonderful thing.

He tosses his head back and laughs.