Page 3 of Almost True
I didn’t want to.
For the first time in I honestly couldn’t tell when, I wanted to stay.
So I returned his gaze, my stomach somersaulting at his proximity and the steadiness in his whole demeanor, and I smiled. “I have no secrets.”
His brow rose. “What you see is what you get, huh?”
Well, no.Not for this guy, anyway, since he apparently didn’t see me like people usually did. And yes, in the circles I ran, many people recognized me rather quickly. They immediately knew me as Madeline Reynolds. Thirty-five-year-old multi-millionaire CEO of a flourishing tech company. Those were the basics, and then of course depending on the magazine or tabloid, you might stumble upon more specific information on my net worth, my real estate holdings, my wealthy parents, my famous friends, my soldier brother, or my terrible track record with love.
I would argue that seeing any of those things would be difficult and there was no chance this handsome man would guess any of that. But I didn’t have to be her tonight. I didn’t have to demur and wait for the inevitable “How did you do it?” or “Do you have any advice?” or “I should set you up with my son/grandson/brother/husband’s friend.”
Embracing that revelation and the rarity that was sitting down with someone who didn’t know me in a place where I had a taste of anonymity after a week of disappointments, I relaxed somewhat. “Yes. And you?”
He sat up and extended a hand. “I’m Aidan.”
I suppressed the smile that would give me away as completely charmed, and a little relieved he hadn’t given a last name. “Maddie.”
Our hands clasped in a firm, warm grip, and we shook without breaking eye contact.
He grinned. “It’s nice to meet you, Maddie.”
“Nice to meet you, too, Aidan,” I said, completely transfixed and also wondering what world I was living in, because I’d never had as strong of a reaction to someone in a matter of minutes as I was having to this guy. But I wasn’t about to ruin the thrill of that sizzling first contact or risk ending the conversation, so I asked, “What do you do here in Silverton?”
His eyes narrowed for a second, but then his brow smoothed out. “I run a tree farm, mostly.”
“A tree farm? Like Christmas trees?”
He swallowed a sip of his drink, the long column of his throat working in a way that was stupidly attractive. I didn’t particularly have a thing for throats or Adam’s apples or anything, but just now it struck me as supremely and unavoidably alluring.
“We do have Christmas trees. We also do a few other kinds, mostly working with the local landscape. It’s an interesting place to grow trees, especially since it’s been so dry. It presents challenges for us as growers, but also for—”
His head dropped and he shook it before looking up again. If I wasn’t sitting a foot from him, I never would’ve believed this man could blush.Seriously?But he sported a bona fide blush on his high cheekbones, and it took all I had in me not to run a finger along the line of his beard, where his cheek reddened.
“Sorry.Sorry.”
What in the what? “Why are you sorry?”
He raised a brow. “Because I was droning on about my work?”
A slice of pain paired with a weird sense of kinship twisted through me. “You don’t ever have to apologize to me for talking about your work. Plus, you weren’t ‘droning on,’ you were explaining some of the challenges. You hadn’t even been talking for two minutes.”
He blinked, then again. “Uh, right. It’s just…” He cleared his throat.
Ah.“Women don’t normally like to hear about your work?”
He took a swig of his drink, then set the empty glass on the bar. “You could say that.”
“I would say, ‘I’m not like those women,’ but I couldn’t tell you. I’m a pretty typical woman. But I can tell you that I love talking business, and work is a huge if not unhealthily large part of my life, so I relate to the tendency to think about and talk about your job constantly.”
“Well, then it’s your turn. What’s your job? Lay it on me.”
* * *
Aidan
Instead of answering, she ducked her head and took a drink.
Even that pulled me in—that almost shy little dip of her head. She set her glass back onto the counter with a manicured hand—I’d bet twenty bucks she didn’t work with her hands.
