CHAPTER 36
AND I MUST SCREAM
Aiden woke the next morning feeling disoriented. It was dark, but the clock—a digital crimson readout he didn’t recognize—said it was eight, and even in December the sun ought to be up. He didn’t have blackout curtains at the house he rented. Usually, it didn’t even matter, because he’d be up by seven or so naturally.
So why was he up late, and where the . . .
He took a deep breath, and inhaled Maggie’s coconut-tinged scent. He rolled closer to her, encountering a lump in the center of the bed. It was a comfortable mattress, but old . . . and that lump had been formed by years of two people sharing but not cuddling. It was the demilitarized zone of marriage. He didn’t fit in the divot the previous occupant had left, he realized. Just like he realized that Maggie did not wander from her side either. Rather, she was cocooned in a perfect Maggie-shaped indentation. He could hear her breath whooshing softly. Otherwise she was perfectly still.
Maybe we can buy a new bed. He grinned, thinking about breaking it in. And cuddling with her afterward.
He stretched out. Even if they hadn’t said so explicitly, he was starting a relationship with Maggie, and that was mind blowing. He was still upset about everything that had happened with his mother, and with Davy and Sheryl at the wedding, but at long last it seemed over. Even if they all hated him, he’d tried his best, and he didn’t have to prove himself or try to assuage their feelings anymore. He was himself, completely.
He didn’t have Maggie to thank for that, per se. But her unflagging support, her grumpy, nearly violent brand of friendship, had meant the world, and he appreciated it. And now, this . . . whatever fledgling thing was happening between them . . .
That meant a lot too. That meant everything.
He got up, got cleaned up a bit. Maggie was still sleeping like a rock. She’d been so good about cooking for him, about doing things for him, when he was hurt. He was happy to help. And it wasn’t quid pro quo, balancing the favor scales. He wanted to help, to do things that would make her life easier and make her feel better.
He wanted to do that for a good long time, if at all possible.
He went out, down the hallway from the bedroom, as quietly as possible. Sunlight poured in through the windows. The house was clean, if a little disheveled. There was a blanket and pillow on the couch where they’d watched the black-and-white version of The Scarlet Pimpernel and where they’d made out before taking it back to the bedroom. There was a plushy sea turtle on the love seat, and mismatched throw rugs that still managed to make the place look homey. He took the time to look at the photos on the walls. They were mostly of Kit, her son, he had to assume. A gap-toothed elementary school photo . . . a kid with a buzz cut, holding up a fish proudly . . . him towering over her in a cap and gown, tasseled cords hanging loosely over his shoulders. She was wearing the black dress, he noticed. Her special-occasion dress.
It made him smile.
Her kitchen was a little messy, so he took the time to do dishes, especially when he discovered （with some horror） that she didn’t have a dishwasher. Then he checked out what she’d stocked her pantry with and decided to make pancakes. He liked cooking when it wasn’t just him, and he was looking forward to learning more challenging recipes since it seemed like Maggie was a foodie at heart. Fortunately, he’d memorized his grandmother’s pancake recipe because it was one of his favorites. He was picky about pancakes.
He hoped Maggie liked them too.
He puttered around, cooking, until he had a tall stack on a plate in the oven, the heat of the oven’s light keeping them warm. It was now nearly nine, and he wondered if he should wake her. He had no idea what her schedule was like. Fortunately, he heard her making noises and saw the ribbon of light under the bedroom door.
“Hope you like pancakes,” he called out, with a grin.
“Let me shower really quickly first,” she called back, muffled through the door. “Then I’ll be right out. There’s maple syrup in the fridge. And some Nutella.”
“Got it.” He cleared off the dining room table, set plates and cutlery, then got the syrup and spread.
He was apparently so engrossed in it that he hadn’t noticed the crunch of wheels on the gravel driveway. He only registered the thump of heavy footsteps on the deck, his mind trying to figure out who might be there on a Monday morning, just before there was the sound of a key jiggling in a lock. The front door swung open. “Mom? You here? Whose car is . . .”
A solid-looking teenager with a shock of black hair and hints of a beard, wearing a gray hooded sweatshirt with a single pocket and a large purple W emblazoned on the front, under a navy down jacket. He looked just like the photos Aiden had been looking through. The only difference was he looked a little older, a little sturdier, and, of course, startled, his eyes going wide.
Aiden imagined he must’ve looked just as startled.
He was so intent on taking Kit in that he’d almost overlooked the man stepping in behind Kit. He looked about Aiden’s age, with the kind of whipcord leanness that you saw in some of the older guys around the Falls . . . the leathery skin, the graying stubble. The guy had a baseball cap instead of a cowboy hat, but in his jeans, heavy work boots, and thick winter coat, the guy gave off mountain man vibes.
“Hi,” Aiden said.
Kit blinked at him. “Um . . . hi?”
The bedroom door swept open, and Maggie all but sprinted out, sliding to a stop in her thick wool socks. “Kit!” She threw her arms around him, then pulled back. “I thought . . . you’re not supposed to be here till Wednesday. I was going to pick you up at the airport!”
“I wanted to surprise you,” he said, arching an eyebrow. “So . . . uh, surprise?”
She released him. “You’re probably wondering . . .”
Then her words cut off as she, too, took in the guy behind Kit. Her eyes went so wide, it was like looking at a chibi version of her, distorted and overexaggerated. “Trev?”
I knew it was going to be her ex-husband. Because why wouldn’t it? He quelled inappropriate laughter. Because all this week needed, really, was getting cut out of his family, finding a woman he wanted to have a future with, and then meeting her son and her son’s dickhead father at the same time.
Wonderful.
“Pancakes?” he offered, deciding to go the “everything’s cool” route and be polite. “I made a bunch, but I can mix up more batter pretty quick if you’re hungry.”
“We had breakfast,” Kit said, turning his full attention on Aiden. “Who are you?”
Aiden stepped over, holding his hand out. “Aiden Bishop.”
“Aiden.” Kit shook his hand, suppressing a grin and shooting an assessing look at Maggie. “The healer?”
“Um . . . yes?” Aiden tried for a grin, even though this felt really uncomfortable. “In our Blood Saga guild.”
“And you’re here, making pancakes.” Trev’s voice wasn’t loud, but it wasn’t low either, and it certainly wasn’t cheerful.
Aiden tried to parse what the guy was trying to say. He didn’t sound thrilled. He couldn’t possibly be jealous, could he? From everything Maggie had told him, the man had been no happier in the marriage than she’d been. Was it simply a matter of a favorite toy—if he couldn’t have her, nobody else should? Or had he never moved on? She had said she’d kicked him out.