Role Playing(94)

“You like him?”

I love him.

She wasn’t ready to admit that quite yet, though. Probably.

“I like him,” she agreed. “A lot.”

“Well, I’ll need to talk to him,” Kit said, sounding so grumpy and ridiculous that she hugged him again.

“We’ll see about that,” she said, then got up. “All right. I’m having some of these pancakes.”





CHAPTER 40


YOUR RESIGNATION IS NOT ACCEPTED


Aiden spent the better part of the day splitting wood for the fireplace, stress-cleaning his house (even though it didn’t need it), and killing even more shit on Blood Saga Online. This time, he didn’t avoid the other members of the guild. Ferocity, Gandalf, and Dork helped him demolish a dungeon, and if they noticed he was more subdued than usual on the chat, they didn’t say anything.

As he mechanically went through the motions of annihilating cave demons and lichs, his brain turned over his current situation carefully. Even though his chest was sore over what he’d needed to do with his family, there was a feeling of lightness there too. A sheer relief, and a sense of unknown. It was like being in a huge open field, or out on the ocean, with nothing but possibility and the chance to go in any direction, the horizon just spread out endlessly. It was daunting and encouraging, both at once.

Now, I just need to convince Maggie to be my girlfriend. How hard can that be?

He sighed, feeling his forehead furrow.

First, having a “girlfriend” at fifty felt very weird. There had to be a better word for it.

Second . . . getting Maggie to do absolutely anything was a challenge. While she might’ve previously been amenable to the idea of being his girlfriend, she hadn’t been smacked in the face with her ex-husband the asshole yet. After all these months, he knew that if anything would put her force fields up, it’d be that.

She liked being with him, at least. She was one of his best friends and favorite people, and he hoped she felt the same. And then there was the fact they’d been together. He wanted to do that again, as soon as possible. Not just the sex, although that was awesome, but spending the day together, sleeping next to each other. They’d hit that next level of intimacy.

She also had had no qualms about, say, jumping over a dining table to defend his honor. Which only made him love her more.

But she was skittish. He knew that. Add that to goddamned Trev’s presence, and he was afraid she was going to retreat into herself like a turtle wearing Razor Ribbon. He was nervous he wasn’t going to have a chance.

No. He wasn’t going to let himself overthink this or psych himself out. He’d been letting other people call the shots most of his adult life. He wasn’t going to ignore Maggie’s wishes—he respected her. But that didn’t mean he was going to just sit passively by and let her close herself off from a relationship with him because she didn’t know how strongly he felt, or how committed he was to this, or because she was afraid that he’d judge her or criticize her. He was all in, and he loved her just the way she was. He needed her to know that.

But to do that, he had to . . . you know, talk to her.

It was eight o’clock at night. He’d texted her that afternoon, just as a check-in, but he hadn’t heard back. The ball was firmly in her court.

He’d just heated up a cup of soup—from a batch he and Maggie had made together—when he saw the flash of headlights through his front curtains. Putting the bowl down on the coffee table, he opened the front door.

“Maggie?”

She gave him a scowling up-nod. “Can I come in?”

“Of course.” He quickly made room for her to scoot around him. Her hands were stuffed deep in her thick fleece jacket. She was back to wearing no makeup, and her eyes looked a little red. Her hair was its usual crazed nimbus of waves and flyaways, and as she toed off her boots, he could see that they were a mess. Her jeans had a hole in the knee.

She looked wonderful, so good it made his heart hurt.

She was also in his house, with a serious expression, looking like she wanted . . . something. To talk?

Shit. That probably meant a “we need to talk” scenario. He was on borrowed time as it was. He was going to have to make the biggest pitch of his life . . . and he wasn’t really what anyone would call persuasive. Davy had gotten all the charming genes.

He cleared his throat. “Can I get you anything? Something to drink? You hungry?” Anything that would keep her there a little longer, keep her occupied, while he sorted out his argument. Dammit, he should’ve done that today. Lord knows he’d thought enough about it!

She gave him a quick, curt shake of her head.

It really wasn’t looking good.

He grimaced. Well, she had every right to not be interested. But he wasn’t going to just assume, and he wasn’t going to roll over and pretend. He had feelings, dammit. And he had the right to at least present his case.

“Why don’t you have a seat,” he said, surprising himself with how firm his voice was. “I think we probably need to talk.”

She blinked at him, probably taken aback at his tone. She nodded, taking a seat on the couch, and he sat next to her . . . close enough to smell her coconut conditioner and that sweet, slightly spicy scent that was just her, but not so close that she felt crowded or uncomfortable. At least, he hoped not.