I swallow it down, remembering how sweet Aaron was when I told him about my great humiliation and how persistent he was in seeking a date with me. While I’m still skittish and wary, he’s proven to be nothing more than a nice—albeit famous—guy so far. It still scares me a bit, but it isn’t debilitating.
I dash through my small house and open the front door, realizing I forgot to put my shoes on. My first look at Aaron causes my breath to catch, and I wonder if I’ll ever get used to his level of hotness. He told me to dress semi-casually. He’s wearing navy dress slacks and a golf shirt with the Vengeance logo on it. It fits his large frame well, stretching across his broad expanse of chest and fitting oh so snugly around his thick biceps.
His hair is brushed back from his face, a slight wave held in place with gel, and he’s clean-shaven. I take a small sniff, and damn… whatever cologne he’s wearing smells good.
Only after I thoroughly ogle him do I finally look up and notice he’s checking me out to the same degree. There’s something on his face I’ve not seen before. He’s told me I’m pretty—beautiful, actually—but he’s never seen me with my hair down or evening makeup applied. My auburn hair falls in gentle waves around my shoulders, stopping halfway down my back. I disagree with Veronica, considering my hair my best feature.
My jumpsuit is straight out of Veronica’s closet, same as the last two outfits I’d worn on my dates with Aaron. It’s not like I don’t appreciate nice clothes or enjoy buying them, but it’s kind of useless to do so when my bestie is a super-rich divorcee fashionista who wears the same size as I do.
“You look amazing,” Aaron says in a low, overly appreciative voice that causes the hair on my arms to stand on end.
“You look very handsome yourself,” I admit, feeling foolish for saying it. It sounds trite when he looks beyond handsome, but if I don’t shut up about it now, I’m likely to start blabbering. So instead, I snag my purse off the table in the foyer and announce brightly, “I’m ready to go if you are.”
Aaron cocks an eyebrow, a tiny smirk on his lips. His eyes travel down my body slowly, landing on my feet. “Pretty sure they won’t serve us if you’re not wearing shoes.”
“Crap,” I mutter, slapping my palm to my forehead. “Guess I’m a little nervous.”
“Would it help if I tell you I’m nervous, too?” he suggests.
I step back from the threshold, inviting him in with a sweep of my arm. “Are you really?”
“Actually, no,” he replies truthfully, stepping inside my small living room. He looks around with interest, remarking, “Your house is great, and I love this neighborhood.”
“It actually belongs to my parents,” I say, closing the door. “One of their rental properties. And I’m sure quite a humble abode from what you’re used to.”
The minute the words are out of my mouth, I regret them. My tone was patronizing, and while it’s an inherent distrust of all things bright and shiny that has anything to do with fame and fortune, Aaron doesn’t deserve to have me judge him like that.
He doesn’t respond, which immediately has me apologizing. “I’m sorry. That was a bitchy thing to say.”
“It’s fine, Clarke,” he assures me, then makes a shooing motion. “Go get your shoes or we’ll be late for our reservation.”
I hide my grimace until my back is turned, bolting to my bedroom for the sexy sling-back shoes Veronica loaned me.
Shit. We’re off to a great start, and it appears I might be unwittingly sabotaging my evening with Aaron. At the rate I’m going, I figure I’ll have him run off for good by the main course.
♦
“I’m glad to finally see you relaxing,” Aaron observes, his fingers playing at the base of his wineglass. He’d ordered a bottle of red after consulting with me to check my preferences. He even had the sommelier pour me a taste when the bottle was opened and presented to Aaron for approval.
I pick up my own glass, take a small sip, and relish the robust taste of the pinot noir he’d chosen. I’m by no means an expert, but I do love trying new wines.
“The wine has helped as has the excellent meal we just ate,” I admit with a smile. Setting my glass down, I glance around the darkened restaurant, which is a small Italian place in a strip mall. It’s reputed to have some of the best food in Phoenix, though. It barely holds twenty tables, but they’re spaced far enough apart diners feel a measure of privacy. I look back to him, taking the moment to apologize. “I’m sorry about what I said at my house… painting you as something you’re not. An elitist.”
Aaron shrugs, shooting me a teasing smile. “Maybe I am.”
He receives a slow shake of my head. “I don’t think so. Truly. At least from what little I’ve observed so far.”
“Well, I appreciate the vote of confidence,” he murmurs. “I come from a humble background. I know how fragile the line between fortune and destitution can be.”
“How do you know that?” I ask. I don’t mean to pry, but he did crack the door.
“Let’s just say while growing up, I was in a position where I had a solid, comfortable life, then had it all snatched out from underneath me.”
“I’m sorry,” I reply, feeling the punch of emotion in his words. But given the fact he started off by saying, “Let’s just say…” leads me to believe it’s a subject he doesn’t want to expound on.
Aaron shrugs again. “I’m just saying I don’t take anything about my current fame, wealth, or the ability to pursue a career I’m passionate about for granted. I’m grateful for it every day.”
“That is something we definitely have in common. Not the fame or wealth part,” I tack on with a laugh. “But I’m really grateful for what I have, too.”
Aaron shifts forward in his chair, pushing his empty plate away and placing his forearms on the table. A move that warns an intimate question is forthcoming. “Why do you distrust fame and fortune? I mean, I get how horrific what that douche did to you was, and I totally get how that would blow your trust in men. But do you blame it on his celebrity, which, in turn, you’re projecting on me?”
I wait for a rush of affront, but it doesn’t come. Aaron’s not belittling my feelings, just trying to understand. Maybe it’s because I took the risk in telling him the whole sordid tale that makes it easier for me to accept his curiosity, but I try to explain it as best I can.
I, too, move forward in my chair, mimicking his position with my arms on the table. My arm is perilously close to my plate, which has a bit of red sauce on the edge, but I ignore it. “I’m not sure if it was his own celebrity that made him such an asshole, or maybe it just contributed to it. It’s a good question. All I know is I wouldn’t have been such a viral joke without his power or fame.”
Aaron’s eyes search mine, wondering if there’s more to it than that. But I think I’ve boiled it down as best I can about where the source of my mistrust lies.
“You’re a conundrum, Clarke Webber,” Aaron finally announces, his tone mischievous.
I laugh, nabbing my wineglass for another long sip. Looking over the edge, I ask, “Is that a good or a bad thing?”