He hit pause, stretching, and she couldn’t help but be a teeny bit drawn to the way his broad chest looked. He had some cushioning. Her ex-husband, Trev, had been whipcord thin, like he was carved out of wood, like a young Clint Eastwood. Aiden was, as Rosita had noted, more like a bear. Or possibly a sofa. He was squishy, and with his russet beard and wild hair, he was furry as well.
He also smelled good, although she couldn’t pin down any of the scents. A little woodsy? And clean. And . . . warm? Also, he gave off heat like a furnace, which, for someone who was usually cold enough to burrito herself in blankets at any opportunity, felt like a bonus. Between his heat and his overall sofa-esque comfy vibe, she wondered absently what it’d be like to snuggle up against him.
Wait. What the HELL? Her subconscious reared back, and she cleared her throat.
“Aren’t you glad I thought about ice cream?” she found herself saying.
He grinned, shaking his head. “Lasagna and ice cream. I should’ve broken my foot ages ago,” he said, and she snickered. “Although I am gonna be paying for this when I recover. But what the hell. Speaking of”—he gestured to the TV—“wanna watch another episode?”
She bit her lip. “I shouldn’t,” she said slowly. “I don’t like driving late, and it’s almost ten o’clock.” Which was nuts. She was never outside her house this late at night if she could help it. “But I really like binging stuff. And I like Gojo—I can see him being played by Ryan Reynolds, you know? And the kid who only speaks in sushi ingredients.” She put on a fake serious expression, mimicking the character’s somber tones. “‘Bonito flakes. Salmon. Salmon.’”
Aiden laughed. “I’m all about Panda, myself,” he replied, “although his backstory’s surprisingly sad. Still, he’s the best.” He frowned. “Wait. If you don’t like driving late—are you going to be okay? Driving, I mean?”
“Sure. Just because I don’t like it doesn’t mean it’s not safe,” she said, mentally adding as long as I drive slowly. “And it’s full dark. Moose and deer tend to wander more at dusk, anyway.”
He looked thoughtful. “You know . . .”
She felt her muscles tense. She liked Aiden, which continually surprised her. Probably because they’d gotten to know each other for a while before meeting face to face. Also because they were just good at being friends: they had compatible personalities.
What he asked next would probably determine whether or not they stayed friends, frankly.
“You could—and let me say, this is with absolutely no pressure and no weird, creepy, horndog vibes,” he temporized, “stay here. In, like, my spare bedroom. And again, no pressure. I just don’t want you on the road and, like, crashing or freaked out or anything. That’s why I have a spare room, in case a friend needs it.”
She felt her shoulders slowly retreat from where they’d pinched themselves, somewhere around her ears. “That’s sweet,” she said, with a relaxed smile.
Then, because her subconscious was an asshole, it pointed out:
Well, he’s not sexually or romantically interested in you at all. And why would he be? You look like a troll that lives under a bridge, and you’re slightly more domesticated than a coyote.
She found herself frowning at herself. The thing was, she didn’t care about how she looked, and she would be damned if she acted like she had under Nana and Trev’s influence. Nana had constantly insisted that she bob her hair and that she wear—swear to God—a pastel-pink twinset. Trev had been less specific, but it seemed like no matter what she wore, he wasn’t happy with it, the bar a consistently moving target that she couldn’t ever meet.
Never again.
“I’ll be fine,” she reassured him.
He nodded. Then he looked . . . embarrassed?
“I know that you got conscripted into hanging out with me because of the whole Deb thing,” he said, with a heavy sigh. “But I really had fun hanging out with you today.”
She sent him a small smile. “It didn’t suck,” she teased. “And it’s not like I didn’t have options. I chose to stay here. Chill out.”
“Was I mean?” he asked, his expression hangdog. “To Deb?”
“No,” she said firmly. “If anything, I get the feeling you’re too nice for your own good.”
“You may not be the first person to notice that,” he grumbled.
“Well, knock it off.” She paused, then smirked. “I am obviously not burdened with an abundance of niceness at this point.”
He grinned warmly at her, and she felt her chest heat in response. “You’re honest. That’s awesome . . . I admire that.”
She shrugged offhandedly, feeling her cheeks start to burn with embarrassment. “I just don’t think that you should get pushed into doing anything you don’t want to do. Period. Life’s too short, you know?”
“I heard a lot of regrets, when I was working hospice,” he said, his gray eyes looking thoughtful. “There were regrets about what they’d done, and what they hadn’t done. A lot of them said they wish that they’d taken more risks. And even more said that they wished they’d lived the way they had wanted, instead of letting other people tell them what they should do, and living that way.”
“Yes,” she said. “I feel that on a cellular level. I don’t regret the choices I’ve made because I got my son out of it, but if I didn’t have Kit . . .” The mere thought had her teeth on edge, and she balled her hands into fists.
He seemed to take in her posture, the set of her jaw, and nodded along with her. “I’m lucky,” he said, and to her surprise, his rumbly tone actually helped calm her down. “I’ve lived in a way that I felt was true. It might be kind of small, and I might not have been the son my parents expected—my truck-driving father was not expecting a nurse, let me tell you—or the partner the people I’ve dated thought I should be, especially since I never got married or had kids. But I was always true to me.”
The words struck her. “I see that about you,” she said, not even monitoring her words. “You’ve got that quiet strength about you. I don’t know a lot of people like you.”
Then she immediately felt embarrassed. Seriously—what, and she couldn’t stress this enough, the hell? Was she going to start writing sonnets to the guy now?
She bounced to her feet. “I gotta go,” she said. “You all right from here? Need any meds? I loaded up the dishwasher, and the rest of the lasagna’s covered in foil in the fridge.”
He grinned, then got up slowly, balancing on his air boot. “Nah, I’m good. Probably won’t need anything more than ibuprofen, and then I’ll go read and then sleep, I guess.”
“Good.” She sent him a stern look, but still, she felt her resolve soften. “If, for some reason, you find yourself in a lot of pain, or you need . . . I don’t know, food, or whatever . . . you can text me.”
He smiled back. “Careful, Boggy,” he teased. “People will say we’re in love.”