Page 16 of Only Between Us

It’s a testament to Aidan’s unyielding patience that he doesn’t even look halfway annoyed as he doubles back down aisle three, where I hear him fiddling with the large refrigeration unit holding our latest shipment of live bait. It’s been on the fritz for the past week, flickering on and off at random times. Never long enough to risk our stock of worms and minnows, but just enough to fray my nerves, considering those little containers house our biggest draw for customers.

Aidan and I grew up on the same street, have been friends since I moved in with the Robertses. He’s just a couple of years younger than me and my thirty-one years, helping me around the shop between the surf events he travels the country to compete in. He’s tall, with skin that really soaks up the sun—a Surfer Ken if I’ve ever laid eyes on the type.

In the months since my breakup, we’ve also become the kind of friends who meet for late-night movies and naked tussles.

He’s Ship Happens’s only other employee—if I can even call him that, with his minimal hours and all the traveling he does—because fishing is a seasonal business in this part of the country. The majority of our summer earnings need to cover an entire twelve months of commercial rent, maintenance, and my paychecks, in addition to the significant cut I funnel to Mom for the mammoth second mortgage on her house.

It’s the least I can do, seeing as I was the reason she got it.

Aidan reappears at the front of the shop. “Unit looks good, Cee. Up and running as usual. Are you all good here?”

“Yup, I’m almost done. Thanks for your help today.”

My phone lights up with another string of messages like those I’ve been getting for the past week.

Comments from the masses on my supposed relationship with a beloved past and future NFL star. Brands reaching out with partnership and advertising offers. It appears that my stock has skyrocketed with Brooks’s star power behind me—they’re offering over double the kind of fee they did at the peak of my Cece Pippen and the Seven Yards days.

Not that I’d ever taken them up on it.

“How many articles today?” Aidan grins when I only raise my brows. “Articles shipping you and your supposed boyfriend. I still can’t go out for a drink in town without reaping the rewards for knowing you, which I thank you for.”

I snort. “You mean the women who keep kissing your ass in the hopes of one day crossing paths with him?”

“They’re rabid.” He shakes his head.

“Uh-huh,” I say with a smirk. “And you’re telling me you haven’t indulged a single one of them?”

“You’re the one dodging me this week. What am I supposed to do?” It’s true that I haven’t been in the mood for our evening visits lately. Aidan’s phone begins to ping enthusiastically, lighting up with texts that he scrolls through with mild interest. “When you do wrap up here?”

Our code forwant to come over and bang tonight?

And… nothing.

I feel nothing, just like every other time he’s asked this week. No twinge below the waist. Not even the desire to shrug and say,Why the hell not? Beats sitting at home bored and alone.

My libido has just… disappeared. Into thin air. I haven’t so much as looked atmyselfnaked all week.

“Cee?” Aidan prompts when I’ve been quiet too long. He tucks his phone into the back pocket of his shorts. “You doing anything tonight?”

“It’s cribbage night at my mom’s.” I’m grateful for the built-in excuse to dodge him again, even though there’s no reason for the nerves. He’s taken all myno’s in stride, no questions asked.

“Oh, that’s right.” He straightens off the counter, shoots me a parting grin. “Then I’ll see you—”

A shrill beeping breaks the silence, from the very back of aisle three—a mean, urgent sound I’ve never heard before, but I know instantly.

Those goddamn worms and minnows are about to ruin my night. And my tomorrow.

My several tomorrows.

The cribbage game is well underway by the time I make it to my parents’ house, and I take the opportunity to stop at the mirror by the front door to smooth my wind-swept hair.

Because my car broke down.

Broke down.

As though I hadn’t just spent the past three hours arguing with a refrigeration company. Trying to offer fixes for the busted unit like I knew anything about refrigeration to begin with, before being plainly told that it was twenty years old, far beyond repair, and that its replacement would cost me $10,000.

Which isn’t ideal, considering money is tight—alwaystight for a seasonal business—but I could have cut my own pay for a few weeks, paid rent on my apartment from my savings, and it would have been fine.

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