Best Of My Love. Сьюзен Мэллери
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of water. He was dripping sweat and exhausted, but in a good way. It was the second day of the New Year and he was feeling better. His hangover was gone. He’d slept the night before, had eaten a healthy breakfast and just completed a grueling two-hour workout. He was on his way to being a new man.
He was going to make this New Year’s thing work for himself. He would drink more water and eat right and get lots of exercise. See his mother more often and if an old lady needed help crossing the street, he would be there. Maybe he would even get a dog. You know, to show some sense of responsibility. It would be good for him to have something other than himself to worry about.
He grabbed his gym bag and shrugged into his jacket. He would shower and change at home, then go into his office and complete some paperwork he’d been putting off. Yup, virtuous. That was his new middle name. Aidan Virtuous Mitchell.
Once outside, the cold air sucked the heat from his body. He took a couple of deep breaths as he walked to his truck. After he finished the paperwork he would—
Someone stood by his truck. A female someone.
The cold on the outside had nothing on the sudden knot of ice that formed in his gut. His throat tightened with dread as he wondered how else his past would come back to kick him in the ass. Or maybe it was the same woman, here for her pound of flesh. He wondered if he should simply let her beat him up. Maybe if he lay down, she could get in a couple of kicks. After all, he’d earned them.
He continued walking and quickly recognized the petite blonde. Shelby Gilmore was leaning against his door, but straightened when she saw him. She squared her shoulders, as if she was determined.
Her thick wool jacket dwarfed her. She had on a ridiculous red knit hat with a pom-pom on the top. She looked young and fresh and just a little bit sexy.
Aidan slowed his steps as he reminded himself that there was no sexy in his life. Not now and not in the foreseeable future. A—no women. B—no local women. C—see A.
“Hi, Aidan,” Shelby said, her voice cheerful. “Have a good workout?”
“Uh-huh.” He tightened his grip on his gym bag. He wanted to ask why she was waiting for him but couldn’t think of a way to phrase the question without sounding abrupt. And these days he was all about the good manners.
“I brought you some cookies.”
She held out a small silver-and-white-striped bag. Even from several feet away, he could smell chocolate and maybe peanut butter.
“I just ran six miles and lifted weights.” He had resolutions, he reminded himself. A need to be virtuous.
“Then you must be hungry.”
Her smile was soft and welcoming. Friendly. Which was close to sexy.
Aidan put the brakes on that train of thought. No sex for him, he reminded himself. Remember A and C. And B.
“You can’t show anyone the sugar cookies.”
He sucked in cold air. “Excuse me?”
She offered the bag again. “Some of them are iced sugar cookies. You can’t show them to anyone.” The smile returned. “Because of Cabin Fever Days. Several of the artists sent me drawings of their designs so I could turn them into cookies. But the designs are supposed to be a secret, so you can’t show anyone the cookies.”
“Because another guy doing an ice sculpture might steal the shape?”
She nodded. “Only some of the artists are women. You shouldn’t assume they’re men.”
“Obviously not.” He eyed the bag, tempted by the delicious smell. “I’m trying to eat right.” The comment was aimed more at himself than her.
“What could be wrong with my cookies?” Her blue eyes brightened with humor. “They’re really delicious. You should trust me.”
He wanted to ask why, then remembered she was also trusting him. With her cookies. Which almost sounded dirty. He sighed. The whole virtuous thing was harder than he thought.
“How do you turn ice sculptures into cookies?” he asked.
“I use the outline of the basic shape. I can add a few details, but not too many. If the details are too refined, they’ll bake out. Plus they can’t be too hard to decorate or I’ll spend all my profits frosting them. Not the amount of frosting, but the time.” She held out the bag again. “Sometimes I get a special order where I can really go to town, but the ice-sculpture cookies are an experiment. We’ll be selling them at the festival. In our kiosk.”
She was talking too quickly. Almost nervously. The bag shook a little and he instinctively grabbed it from her. Then wondered if he shouldn’t have.
“Shelby, why are you here?”
“I want to talk to you.”
“About cookies?”
“No. I brought those because I’m nice.”
That made him laugh. “Good to know. What do you want to talk about?” He hesitated. “In case it matters, I’ve given up women.”
Her mouth twitched. “Have you? That can’t be very fun.”
“It’s only been a day. So far it’s not so bad.” He was lying, but what the hell. She couldn’t know that.
Her smile returned. “Just so we’re clear, I’m not here because I’m interested in having sex with you. And I don’t want a boyfriend. Well, I do. But not you.”
He had no idea what to make of her or what she was saying. “So I should be grateful for the cookies?”
She laughed. “No. I hope you’ll like them, though.” The humor faded. “The truth is...” She swallowed. “Wow, this is harder than I thought. I want...”
The ice in his gut returned. Whatever it was, he wasn’t going to like it. He told himself, whatever it was, he would say no. He needed practice saying no and this would be how he started. N-O. Easy enough. According to his mother it had been one of his first words.
“I want us to be friends.”
* * *
SHELBY UNLOCKED HER front door. She was cold and nervous. The first would be remedied by the furnace in her small apartment. The second was more of a problem.
Aidan hadn’t laughed at her. That was something. Nor had he walked away. Instead he’d thought for a long second, before saying, “Go on.” Which was when she’d suggested they talk at her place.
Now she waited while he followed her inside. Her already tiny apartment seemed to shrink. She pulled off her hat and fluffed her bangs, then hung both coats on the rack by the front door.
She turned and looked around her place, wondering what he saw. Or thought.
The apartment was newish, with big windows. From where she was standing, she could see the living room, the dining alcove and most of the kitchen. All in all, the place was pretty ordinary and she hadn’t done that much decorating.
She’d left the walls white and added a few posters. Most of them were of wildflowers or sunsets, but the one over the sofa was of Kipling screaming down a mountain. He was in perfect focus, with the background behind him a blur. Both skis were several inches above the ground. His expression was intense, his mouth straight.
He’d won that race and she’d been there to see it happen. The picture was one of her favorites.
The rest of the room was less exciting. She had a navy plaid sofa with a single chair by the window. She’s found the simple maple dining table and chairs at a thrift store. Back the other way was the short hallway that led to her bedroom. There was also a decent-sized bathroom.
Nothing fancy, but the place worked. The rent was reasonable, the neighbors quiet. She worked a lot of hours and didn’t need any more. One day, she thought wistfully.