Aiden
“No rooms.” I blow out a breath and put my cell down. I scoured various travel sites trying to book a room for myself, and now we just passed Orlando.
The first place I tried, of course, was the Sun Viking Lodge, but they were booked. So then I tried hotels in ever increasing distances from there. No luck.
“How can that be?”
“Some gymnastics convention-competition thing with kids and families from all over the country.” I finally called the Viking Lodge in desperation to see if they knew of anything remotely nearby that might not be on the travel sites. The guy was understanding, told me the scoop, and that everything was booked.
I’m trying extra hard, because she’s getting more and more nervous about this situation. I can sympathize.
Holy hell.
That kiss.
I think it goes without saying that that kiss was unplanned. It’s just that…when she glanced at my mouth, for perhaps the third time today, the tension that’s been thrumming through me ever since we started this trip had me wanting to see—is there more here?
Her yanking me to her cleared that up.
I shift in my seat, but the damn woody I’ve been sporting since The Potty Chair Kiss will not go away.
She also went quiet following my bad news. She has different levels of quietness. One level, she’s right there with me in the moment and we’re enjoying each other’s company with no pressure to perform with jokes or conversation.
But then there’s another level, where she draws in on herself, and there’s a weight in the air surrounding her, shielding her, distancing her from everyone else.
This quiet now is a new level. There’s a trace of nervousness and vulnerability, as if she’s almost at the surface, but unsure if she can make an appearance.
I look out the windshield and don’t say anything. I’m tempted to coax her, but I have a hunch she needs to break through on her own, like those nature documentaries that show hatching babies and how they have to push through the shell on their own to gain the necessary strength to survive outside it.
Plus, there’s the not-so-small matter of her ghosting me.
She unclamps her fingers from the steering wheel and rubs her palms back and forth on the wheel. She grips it again. “Um, we can…can see if my room has a double, and we can share it. I won’t mind, if you don’t.”
Obviously that took a lot for her to say, so I don’t draw attention to it. No jokes. No innuendo. No teasing. Instead, I say, “Thank you. If not, rooms usually have a club chair I can crash in.” I fiddle with the air vent.
“Maybe they’ll have a roll-away bed we can have them bring up.” Her voice is a tad higher with false optimism.
“Sure. It’ll all work out. I know you didn’t plan for me to be along.”
She rubs her palms on the wheel again. “I’m glad you’re along.” She pushes the words out in a rush as if shoving them with a temporary courage that could disappear any moment.
I glance at her, and her cheeks are blushing. “Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Inexplicably, my whole chest gets warm. I nod and smile. I’ll do whatever will make her comfortable tonight, but a growing part of me—like, literally—hopes she’ll allow me to sleep in her bed.
I adjust my ass in the seat and stretch out my legs, giving a discreet tug to my jeans. Tonight’s potential pulses in the close confines of the car and feeds on the simmering pull that’s been a constant. I’m hyper aware of where she is and how close. Where her hands are. When they move and where. And it’s driving me batshit because none of the positions are where I want them to be—in my hand.
Fuck, that’s sappy.
But dammit, it’s true.
And that truth hits me like the strongest shot of whiskey—the jolt of surprise, the heat, the thrill.
We’ve got wicked chemistry, and sure, I’ve been an idiot thinking it would wane with road-trip familiarity. Instead, this trip has solidified my initial assessment—she’s awesome. Someone I enjoy being around. My words aren’t the stuff of poetry—I can’t explain it any better than we just fit. And it feels as if we’ve always known each other.
Another mile marker speeds by as I soak in this truth. And like a shot of whiskey, there’s the inevitable sobering moment—I’m good for hookups. I’m not relationship material.
Tuesday night, when Luke accused me of being a man-whore and said that I need to stop, I dismissed his advice. My meaningless hookups not only numbed me but also kept me from getting sucked into another long-term relationship.
Now I’m staring down the last years of my twenties, and the whole hookup thing just leaves me feeling like a shallow jackass. It’s done fuck-all for me. Except maybe help numb my pain so I could ferry myself from the Brittany-shore to…wherever I am now.
But… I’m here on this new shore, and that pain now seems so distant.
I glance at Jane, and again warmth fills my chest. Maybe it’s time I let go of that crutch.
Jane
Holy heck.
That kiss.
And now we’re going to share a room? I flush again for like the umpteenth time, the heat going into every nook and cranny of my body. It’s like I’m some blinking light, blushing over and over, since our kiss under the potty chair. I’m not fooling myself that this situation is anything more than what it is. He’s a player—I know that. And we’ve been in close proximity for over twenty-four hours, so of course he’d make a move on me since there’s no one else around. It’s not me me that he’s interested in—I’m just a warm body.
Warm body… Aiden’s warm body.
Another mile marker whizzes by as I, dangit, flush again, and my mind does a little side trip into fantasy land, picturing how, in an alternate world, he doesn’t sleep in the club chair and instead climbs into bed with me.
Then, as another mile marker passes, I straighten. Does it have to be fantasy?
Claire wants me to get out of my shell—and yeah, get over Aiden—so maybe part of my problem is that things are “unresolved” between us. At least on my part.
I know the whole “get him out of my system” thing is something that romance heroines—and heroes—use because they’re in denial. But here’s the thing. I’m not in denial. I know very clearly what I want and what I don’t want.
I don’t want a guy like him for the long haul. Playboys and charmers will always let you down. I learned that lesson well enough to not get fooled again. But I also can’t deny my attraction. Especially since it’s so rare. So if sleeping with him—if I’m reading the signals right—will help me realize he’s not as great as I’ve built up in my head, then that’ll be good. Right?
I nod my head, firm in my decision.
By now, we’re entering the outskirts of Daytona Beach, and GPS directs us through the beachy neighborhood that’ll spill us onto the main strip on the Atlantic side of the city. I’ve lived in Florida most of my life and never been here. But it feels familiar to other beach cities in its architecture. Just a different layout.
Surf shops, burger joints, and wacky signs here and there to draw in the tourists.
“There’s a Viking!” Aiden says, pointing to the left, and a beat later Miss Google says, “Your destination is on the left.”
Sure enough, a larger-than-life statue in blue pants with a round shield and horned helmet stands beside the front end of a longboat. We pull into the parking lot, and I realize the longboat’s doing double-duty as the entrance to a low-slung building.
After posing for pics by the Viking, we get checked in and head to our room. Other than the Viking and longboat, everything else seems pretty normal—like a Florida hotel on the beach a couple of decades out of date.
I open the door to our room. It’s a king. My heart does a slow thump, while my libido does a fist pump.
Aiden lets out a low whistle behind me. “The 80s called, and they want their decor back.”
“Right?” I put my hand up to shield my eyes—the bedspread’s a bright blue pattern with a red, tropical print bolster and matching spread folded at the bottom. A peek into the bathroom reveals a cream yellow counter.
I move deeper into the room. That king bed. I swear it grows in size as if perturbed I’m ignoring it. Or trying to. I quick-step past it. “But hey, we’ve got a view!”
Glass doors open to a small balcony. Below, a pool glows with underwater lights, revealing a twisting water slide. Beyond stretches darkness, obscuring the ocean. “Well. Tomorrow we’ll have a view,” I say, looking over my shoulder at Aiden. I still don’t see you, bed.
“Are you one of those crack o’ dawn types who’ll want to see the sunrise?” He tosses his duffel bag on the floor and plops into a chair at a small round table.
“Heck no.”
“Good.” He slides down the chair, extending his long legs. The denim stretches and bunches in enticing places. “You hungry? We can explore the bar area, see what Vikings might lurk about, and grab something.”
My “yes” might be a little too high-pitched. “Lemme just…freshen up.” Nervousness lays claim to my stomach again, because this feels a lot like a date, and I’ve also decided something.
Something big.
I’m going to take a risk.
Risk that I’m correctly reading the signals.
I nab my toiletries.
He’s a player, right? And it’s clear I need a little fun in my life. Thanks, Claire. So I need to look at this situation differently. Instead of pushing him away because he’s not a long-term guy, as well as being hurt that he wasn’t interested in me that night, I need to be all carpe diem on his cute butt.
After all, that was my original intention the night we met. And now he does seem to want me. I think. And our short time together is ideal—two more days. That should be enough of a defining boundary that I can’t—won’t—read more into it. Won’t start building expectations only to be let down. Just a fling.
No lie, the decision makes me a little lightheaded. I run a brush through my hair, brush my teeth, and touch up my makeup, not that I wear much. My hands might be a little shaky.
I exit the bathroom, patting the back of my head to make sure there are no rogue hairs poking out.
Aiden’s gaze flicks super-quick up and down my body. He smiles. “You look nice.”
My palms get all sweaty. “Thank you.”
Then we have an excuse-me dance in the hallway as we each try to pass the other, and all the while I’m acutely conscious of his nearness and what I hope will happen later tonight. Now my whole body feels like one big flame of awkward awareness.
Aiden takes his turn in the bathroom, and I’m heading back over to the balcony when my phone rings. Claire.
“Hey.” I slide open the glass door. A cool breeze hits my face.
“Hey, seen any Vikings yet?”
“Ha ha.” Behind me, the shower comes on in the bathroom. Heat chases up my spine as I picture what that means. Aiden. Naked. With water running down all that toned skin.
“Be honest. How many times have you drawn stabby pictures of me in your travel journal?”
Her question yanks me from my increasingly dirty thoughts. I laugh for real this time. “Actually, none.”
There’s a pause. “Wait. Is this Jane?”
I roll my eyes. “Yes.”
“I don’t know. You don’t sound pissed at me. Is it possible you might be, gasp, enjoying yourself?”
I answer tentatively but honestly. “I think I am.”
“Good. Where are you now?”
“W—” I quickly turn this into an “I just checked into the hotel. The view’s great. Overlooks the beach. Can’t wait to see it in the daylight.”
“What’d you think of the stops today?”
I fill her in, and it feels weird to carve Aiden out of the retelling. But, yeah, she’d be throwing an epic WTF lecture at me right now if she knew who was with me. And while it is still a bit WTF, it’s also something private right now, and I can’t explain it to her. I’m not sure I can explain it to myself.
To redirect the convo, I ask, “So what’s going on with your doppelganger?” There’s a hurricane out in the Atlantic bearing down on the Bahamas. It’s hurricane season, so that’s not unusual. But this one’s been dubbed Claire. Like any smart Floridian, I keep an eye on storms brewing in the Atlantic.
“Ha ha. She’s being a weirdo. Did a full circle out there.”
The shower shuts off, and the door opens behind me, but it takes a moment for me to think through what can happen. Sure enough, Aiden says, “Ready to go?”
I jump. Why, I don’t know. His presence wasn’t a surprise, and his voice shouldn’t have been. Guilt?
Claire pounces. “Who’s that?”
I don’t answer, because I’m kinda doing a mental Muppet flail, trying to process seeing Aiden fresh out of shower (dressed, but still), his asking me a question I need to answer, and Claire overhearing. My delay has made Claire suspicious.
“Jane, do you have a man in your room?” She sounds downright excited.
At the same time, Aiden says, “Sorry. Didn’t realize you were on the phone.” He makes a bashful face.
“No!” I say in an explosion of breath. I’m answering Claire, but Aiden looks at me, puzzled, while he collects his wallet and room key, placing them in his back pocket.
“I thought you said you were in your room?”
I whip around to put my back to Aiden. “I was.” I step onto the balcony to make it more of a fudge than an outright lie. “But I’m not anymore.”
“So you’re not getting lucky tonight?”
“Who knows. Night’s still young, right?” I tease, knowing this will throw her off the scent.
“That’s the attitude, girl. I’m glad this trip’s working out.” A horn blares in the background. “Listen, I gotta run, but what do you think about coming to Saturday’s game before you head back? I know The Turd’ll be there, but by then, you’ll be over him, right? This’ll be a good test.”
One more day with Aiden. Before I can think too hard, I say, “Yeah, that sounds great.”
She rattles off directions, with a promise to text me the event address, and hangs up. I reenter the room. Aiden’s head is dipped downward, his thumbs flying along his phone screen. He looks as if he’s in professional mode, and it throws me, which is weird—the man does own a business. Had I just assumed he was frivolous with it too?
He looks up then and smiles, the professional mask gone. “Ready for dinner?”
“Yes.” I think, remembering my newfound resolution to be open to sleeping with him. I can do this.