Page 46 of Troubles

As soon as the door opens, I stalk in. Hands weaving through her hair as I push her up against the wall. Her hands come up underneath my arms, gripping tightly. The kiss is hungry, desperate, and full of how much I missed her in the past hour.

“Aidan. Oh my God.” She’s breathing me in, just as much as I am her. When I’m sure I don’t care that her roommate is here, Lis pushes at my chest. I pull back just enough for her to speak. “Let me grab my bag.” I pull her in, kissing her again before I release her.

But I don’t really let her go. Hands firmly on her hips, I follow her to her room. Gracyn steps out of Lis’ room, looking like she’s holding tight to a secret.

I drag my hands from Lis, not wanting to let her go. “I owe you a lifetime of gratitude. I promise to take good care of her and always put her first.”

Gracyn looks me up and down, trying hard to look parental. Hands on her hips, toe doing a little tap-tap-tap on the floor. “I warned you months ago what will happen if you don’t. Just keep that in mind, and treat my girl right.”

With a kiss on her cheek and a wink, her smile peeks through.

“Love, before we go, can I use your printer? I want to sign and send the contract for the flat back.” I flip open her laptop and see a familiar picture saved in the lower right-hand corner.

I print the contract and sign it. While it scans through and into my email, I click on the image. It’s me. My school photo from primary.

“Were you stalking me?” I tap at the screen eyebrow cocked, smirking at Lis over my shoulder. “I’m flattered.”

“I Googled you—God, ages ago. I thought you were adorable and saved it. I might have cropped out one of your school friends, though.” Nose wrinkled and her eye-closing smile takes over her face. “I guess that is kind of stalkerish. Do you mind? Want to email, canceling that contract?”

“Hmmmm—I don’t. I want to take you away. I want to spend every minute with you—loving you.” I grab her hand and her bag, pulling her along behind me.

Lis

Tension hangs heavy in the car. The two-hour drive through Connecticut is an exercise in patience and self-control. One that I’m not prepared for. One that I’m failing miserably at.

“So, you’re not going to tell me where we’re going?”

“I’m not. You’ll have to wait and see,” he quips like he knows what I’m thinking—that I have no patience.

“I really suck at surprises. Maybe you should give me a hint?” I turn in my seat and lean toward him. I absolutely hate the car’s console right now; I feel like it’s separating us by miles.

The scruff on his jaw rasps as he runs his hand up and down. “I don’t know. I planned this trip, packed for it, and secured our flat in less than an hour. I think you should let it be a surprise. Maybe let me take care of things. Maybe let me treat you to a few days away, where you don’t have to worry about a thing.” He struggles to hold a serious look on his face, and his cheeks start rising in a smirk. “Maybe, you should just lean back, enjoy yourself, and thank me for wanting to treat you to something special.”

“Maybe.” It rolls off my tongue as I sit back and watch this man. How am I this lucky?

Before I can reach into the back seat to grab my bag, Aidan’s pulled it out on his side of the car. The strap resting across his chest pulls at his t-shirt highlighting all the peaks and valleys. The lines and the muscles I know by heart.

I didn’t know that men like him existed in real life. Kind and protective, a gentleman—but not spineless or weak. He ushers me into the lobby and checks us in.

The concierge explains the hotel’s amenities as she clicks away at her keyboard. The beach, the restaurant, complimentary cocktail hour.

I hear her talking, trying to pull Aidan into conversation, hanging on his responses. He’s polite, but short, clipped almost, trying to move things along.

“Thank you.” He tucks the plastic room keys between his teeth while shoving his wallet back in his pocket with one hand, pulling me toward the elevator with the other.

When the doors are closed, Aidan hits the button for the fourth floor. And all politeness is suddenly gone. He crowds me into the corner, hands on the walls on either side of me. Caging me in.

“Lisbeth, we’re not goin’ to make that cocktail hour. Ye okay wit’ that?” His eyes are dark, his voice is darker, accent thicker.

He steps back as the doors open at our floor. I smile at a couple with a toddler and baby, loaded down with beach bags and a cooler as we exchange places.

“Probably a good thing they’re headed out. Nap time would definitely be ruined,” he mutters as he pulls me down the hall.

Stunned, a little off kilter, I look from the elevator to Aidan and back again. The woman hands her toddler a shovel from their beach bag and winks at me as the doors slide shut.

28

Lis

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