Page 78 of Done with You

“And if she doesn’t?” Aiden asked, his body achy from how much his gut spun and his heart hurt.

Jordan shrugged, finished his beer, and got up from his La-Z-Boy with a grunt. “Won’t know until you try.”

Chapter Sixteen

The next morning, Aiden got up before anyone else in the house and went out for a run. Thankfully, the clouds rolled in sometime during the night and it started to rain, which meant it wasn’t cold enough to freeze, and he didn’t have to worry about black ice patches trying to kill him.

By the time he got back from his run, the house was quiet.

He knew he wasn’t alone, but he also knew there was only one other person there.

Rayma.

Her car was parked out front on the street, while Jordan’s truck was gone.

Aiden couldn’t smell Oona’s unique floral-nutty scent, so he knew she wasn’t there, either.

“Ah, you’re home,” came Rayma’s voice as she opened her bedroom door. “Good. Shower, get dressed, then we have an appointment.”

Aiden scrunched his brows. “Huh? We already did the serge fitting.”

“I know.” Her cool disinterest was muddling. He didn’t know Rayma very well, but what he did know was that the woman exuded warmth and bubbliness. Right now, she was flat, cold, and regarding him with lightly veiled disdain.

Not that he didn’t deserve it, but the contrast in demeanor was still jarring.

He didn’t ask anymore questions, because Rayma left him no room to ask them. So he did as he was told and showered, then got dressed.

He barely had on his shirt and she was standing by their front door with her keys in her hand, tapping her foot. “Don’t have all day, bruh. I do have a wedding to plan, you know.”

“Right. Sorry.” He tossed on his dark gray winter jacket and slid into his boots, then followed her out to her car. “You’re taking me out to the woods to kill me, aren’t you?” he asked, adding an uncomfortable chuckle to the end of that sentence.

She shot him a look over her shoulder that said, “Don’t tempt me.”

They drove in silence for about fifteen minutes, then pulled up to a well-maintained red brick bungalow with a big shop on one side, a white sedan and a gray SUV parked in the driveway. Although it was winter, the yard was immaculate and probably boasted candy-colored flowers in the spring. Twin hooks were drilled into the beams of the garage overhang where hanging baskets overflowing with life probably hung like earrings during the summer.

But for now, there was a green wreath with red and silver accents on the door, some tastefully hung Christmas lights, and a welcome mat with a Christmas tree on it that had two giant gift boxes below it. “Is that—”

“Yes, it’s a dick and balls on the welcome mat,” Rayma said, not bothering to knock, but going right in. “Nana! Grantpa! I’m here. Put your clothes back on, you horny old buggers.”

“We’re in the kitchen,” a man’s voice called.

“Doing the nasty where you make our Christmas turkey?” Rayma said, kicking off her boots at the front door, then making her way into the house. The place was warm and cozy. An enormous Christmas tree sat in one corner of the living room, bedazzled to within an inch of its life with ornaments and warm white lights, while heaps of gifts sat below glittering with festive wrapping paper and bows.

Rayma entered the kitchen, Aiden on her heels. There, they found Grant, their driver from last night, sitting at the kitchen table sipping from a coffee cup, while a tiny woman who was probably not even five-feet-tall with her gray hair up in a tight ballerina bun fussed over a stove with simmering pots. She wore a frilly apron with daisies on it and dark jeans and a long-sleeve button-up shirt in a soft pink. Her blue eyes lit up like birthday candles when she saw Rayma.

“Hello, my darling,” she said, embracing Rayma. “Am I talking too loud for you?”

Rayma hugged the woman back, giving her a real, genuine squeeze. “I can handle my liquor, Nana, you know that.”

“How’s your husband-to-be fairing this morning?” Grant asked.

“A little less raring to go, he said his head hurt when he woke up, but he’s functioning on most of his cylinders. He got a call early this morning about a case he was working on. Needed to pop down to the station to help with a report. Dropped Oona off at Pasha’s on the way.”

Aiden knew she was giving the information to her and Grant in a way that was also educating him of his brother and Oona’s whereabouts, since he hadn’t asked, but had been crazy-curious.

“And this must be Aiden,” the woman said, her gaze roaming Aiden for a moment with carefully cloaked judgment.

Aiden cleared his throat and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you … Mrs. Hart? Mrs. …?” He glanced at Grant. Grant wasn’t the Harty Boys father, he knew that. They’d all called him by his first name last night, so he was probably her second husband, and therefore didn’t share the same last name as his stepsons. But did she keep her former last name, the one she shared with her sons? Or did she take Grant’s? Or did she keep her maiden name?

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