The rock star grins. “How do you think I know?”
He stares at Caleb’s hands until they drop, then reaches for my robe and tugs me into him so I’m nestled between his legs.
To anyone else, the gesture might seem warm and romantic. But when his palm lands on my back, searing me through the thick fabric I have on, I feel his fingers dig into me.
Clawing.
Claiming.
It’s not romantic, so much as it is Aiden asserting his dominance over the situation.
Over me.
Stupidly, because I still feel like I owe him—and because I don’t hate the way it feels—I let him. Even though doing so causes a flash of hurt to spark in Caleb’s eyes as he backs away, returning to his skillet.
“Hot tub works, by the way,” Aiden tells me, reaching up to tuck some hair behind my ear.
I didn’t even know I had a hot tub.
His eyebrows draw in, creasing in the middle. “What the hell happened to your chin?”
“It’s nothing.” Heat crawls up my neck, embarrassment burning into me. “Just some kind of reaction to my lotion. I’m calling the doctor as soon as everyone leaves my house.”
“Lotion?”
“Yes, it’s what humans use to moisturize their skin?”
“Are you suggesting I’m some sort of extraterrestrial?”
“More like demon spawn.”
Caleb clears his throat. “My mom probably has some aloe vera mixture that might help with that, in the meantime. I know doctor appointments around here are pretty sparse this time of year.”
“She’ll get in to see one,” Aiden says. “I’ll pull strings if I have to.”
“I’m not sure if you have the same kind of reach in Lunar Cove as you might in other places.” Caleb flips his dough onto a nearby plate, returning to the pan for another and repeating the process. “The people around here don’t really give a shit about your fame.”
“Do they give a shit about money? Because I could probably be the owner of this tourist trap by sundown, if I wanted to be.”
Setting the spatula on the counter, Caleb turns, crossing his arms over his chest. He looks at me, then at Aiden, and back. A lump forms in my throat, unease spilling like flames down my esophagus.
“You might be able to,” he says, pinning me with a dark look, “but I don’t think you’d be able to buy Angel. So, maybe consider your priorities before you go around trying to prove how big your dick is.”
“I don’t have to prove anything.” Aiden’s hand wraps around my skull, pulling me against his wet chest. “Angel already knows the truth. Isn’t that right, pretty girl?”
My teeth saw into my bottom lip, irritation buzzing through my veins at the same time my insides preen, basking in the glow of his admiration.
Caleb’s face softens, his disappointment unmistakable.
“I’m gonna head out,” he says, walking over to a chair at the island where his dark-gray coat hangs.
“You don’t have to—” Aiden pinches my hip, ending my sentence prematurely. I shove out of his grasp, my fist rearing back as a reflex.
It pauses mid-swing, and Aiden’s silver eyes glow with amusement.
Letting my hand fall, I sidestep him and walk around the island, gesturing to the food sitting out. “Caleb, come on. You didn’t make all of this for me. Stay and help us finish it.”
I don’t know why I say us, like Aiden and I are a unit, but once it’s out there, I can’t fish it back. The word tastes bitter on my tongue and gets worse when Caleb gives me a small smile.
“It’s not a big deal, Ang. Eat up, and I’ll see you later for Christmas shopping.” He reaches out, patting my cheek even though I’m sure Aiden’s glare is aimed at us, and then he steps in, lowering his voice. “But, for the record, I do think you should put something on your face. That rash looks painful.”
I nod, smiling slightly. “I will.”
“Good.” He steps back, sliding on his coat, then disappears from the room. My heart aches as he goes, knowing he deserves a better friend, yet selfishly not being willing to let him go yet.
It’s that age-old caveat of wanting what’s best for others, but also needing to keep a piece of their goodness for yourself. If not for Caleb, I don’t know how I’d have survived in Lunar Cove this long, and I’m not in a place yet where I’m willing to find out.
Spinning on my heels, I scowl at Aiden. “You’re an asshole.”
He’s standing at the stove, using his finger to taste the yellow batter in a glass mixing bowl.
“Tell me something I don’t know.” His face twists, and he wipes his finger on the dish towel. “Your boyfriend can’t cook.”
“God, he’s not my fucking boyfriend.”
“Good thing, because he can’t cook. You’d probably die of food poisoning in that relationship.”
I’m indignant on Caleb’s behalf. “He can cook. I’ve had his apple crumble, and he makes scones and empanadas all the time.”
“Okay, so he can bake.” Aiden pushes the bowl back on the counter, turning to face me. “That’s not the same as cooking, though, and people who can’t cook shouldn’t try to make arepa boyacense unsupervised.”
I blink. “What the hell is that?”
“A Colombian breakfast dish. My mom used to make it every weekend when I was a kid, and let me tell you, it was heaven.” He points at the fried dough sitting on the plate. “Those taste like ass.”
“Familiar with that, are we?” I try not to let my surprise show over the fact that he’s talking about his past, so candid as he stands here in my kitchen.
Like we’re old friends and not, at best, star-crossed wannabe lovers.
A slow burning smile spreads over his lips, and he lets his eyes fall down over me. “Don’t worry. I’ll be familiar with yours in no time.”
He reaches into the bowl for a measuring cup, funneling the batter from there into the pan
I frown. “What are you doing?”
“My mother would disown me if I didn’t correct the golden boy’s mistake, so apparently I’m making you breakfast.” Glancing at me over his shoulder, he lifts an eyebrow. “Be a good girl and help out, hm?”
33
My thumb flicks against the lid of my Zippo lighter, my legs outstretched as I lounge on the bench in front of the Pruitt Art Gallery.
Caleb’s been back from break for half an hour, and while every light inside has been turned on, and the open sign flipped back, he hasn’t actually unlocked the door.
My dick is getting frostbite just sitting here.
There’s about three feet of snow on the ground, and the entire boardwalk is decked out in Santas and beautiful, twinkling lights, each store overhang having their own specific color of bulbs; red at the diner, yellow at the souvenir shop, blue at the art gallery, and so on.
Christmas back home stopped being much of an event when I was young; even before my career took off, and my parents decided cultivating the Aiden James brand was more important than cultivating me, things in our household were strained.
Not unloving, necessarily. Just awkward. A severe disconnect existed between the three of us that kept happiness on the outskirts of our lives.