16. Olivia

16

OLIVIA

Aaron’s green gaze lingers on my face. It feels like all the air has been sucked out of my lungs.

My heart stutters as I try to absorb his words. Words that have caught me entirely off guard because they don’t mesh with the mental picture I have of him. Words that simultaneously chill me to the bone and set me on fire.

And suddenly, Dallas Cooper’s earlier teasing rings out loudly in my head.

“You’re totally into our captain, aren’t you?” he asked with delight, rubbing his hands together like I just let him in on an exceptionally juicy secret. All I’d actually done is inquire, very casually, if Aaron was feeling okay after yesterday’s cockroach debacle.

I told Dallas he was insane.

And this is what I tell myself now as I watch Aaron’s Adam’s apple move in the strong column of his throat, making me swallow the lump in my own.

I need to remember that this is the same Aaron who climbed through my bedroom window one night in high school while he and Jake were trying to avoid getting caught coming back from a party. I let my guard down with him, almost let him kiss me (or maybe I almost kissed him, which is mortifying) before he walked away without a second thought.

Shame on me if you fool me twice…

“I should go,” I blurt.

“Oh, okay.” Aaron’s handsome face is unreadable. “I’ll give you a ride.”

“No, no. I’ll get an Uber or something.”

“At this hour? Absolutely not.” He gives me a smirk. “Come on, Liv, it’s the least I can do. I insist.”

There's a note of finality in his tone that makes me nod instead of argue, and I can suddenly see why they made Aaron captain. In so many ways, this isn’t the cocky, smirky boy I knew years ago. This is a commanding man who speaks with authority.

But then, his grin turns roguish. “Don’t want some creep abducting you, do I? Jake would never forgive me.”

Instead of making one of my usual acidic retorts to such a dumbass statement, I have to laugh. “Okay, Aaron. Take me home.”

“Your car looks fast,” I tell Aaron somewhat idiotically as I buckle my seatbelt. The leather seat is butter-soft and cool to the touch.

I’ve never been alone with Aaron in a car before, and this, coupled with the general whiplash I’m feeling thanks to his earlier statement, makes me feel the need to say something.

Apparently, a useless observation is the best I could come up with. But in all honesty, I’m impressed. The sleek, sports class Mercedes is unlike any other car I’ve seen. I mean, the thing looks like it’s from the year 2050 and probably cost him more than what I make annually.

Twice annually .

“I love this car.” Aaron runs a hand almost affectionately over the steering wheel. I’m momentarily mesmerized by his big, callused fingers moving delicately over the expensive leather.

For a moment, I idly wish that I was that steering wheel. Let myself imagine how it would feel for those hands to be moving over me with such assuredness, such confidence.

Sudden heat blossoms in my lower belly and I give my head a shake, horrified by my body’s visceral reaction to my mind’s very, very inappropriate and uncalled-for thoughts. Aaron is the last person on earth I should be fantasizing about.

What is wrong with me?

“I didn’t think you loved anything but yourself,” I say archly, but I’m sure my cheeks are twin scarlet beacons that give away the ridiculous fantasy I was just having about him touching me.

That freaking loaded, sizzling moment in his kitchen has clearly sent my head spinning. I need to go home and sleep off whatever this is.

Aaron looks over, his mouth pulling at the corners like he’s somehow sussed me out. “I make the odd exception.”

“Let me guess. The other exception being hockey?”

“Yes,” he says lightly as he backs out of the garage. “But people over things, always. I love my mom. My nonna. My team.”

“Women,” I supply drily.

His smile turns into a full-on grin. “I do love women.”

“Were you in love with the woman who named a cockroach after you?” The question leaves my lips before I can think it, and I mentally reprimand myself. When I brought this up earlier, it obviously bothered him, and while I normally wouldn’t care about being insensitive towards him, I find myself wanting to go easy on him right now.

“No.” His tone is still light, but his smile fixes in place and his stubbled jaw tenses. “I didn’t even know her.”

“I thought you two were almost engaged.” My voice is gentler this time. When I saw the news about the failed engagement, I assumed it was bogus—I’ve never seen nor heard of Aaron getting serious with anyone. I can’t help but wonder if there is a bigger story here.

“You keeping tabs on my dating life, Lil Griz?” he asks cockily, brow arched.

I roll my eyes at him. “Watch the road, bozo. And I can’t help it that reading the news about my brother means that I have to see news about you, too.”

He gives a soft chuckle, and the sound reverberates through the car, producing goosebumps on my skin. “Don’t believe everything you read, Olivia.”

After that, we fall silent, save for Aaron’s Apple Maps lady directing us to the relative hovel known as my apartment. I shift in my seat, sliding over the slick leather as I will the traffic to disappear so I can get home faster. After spending the last few hours with Aaron, I’m suddenly ready to be alone, far from his proximity and the confusingly enticing smell of his cologne.

Clearly, I’m very tired. I’m usually immune to The Aaron Effect.

Aaron reaches forward and turns the radio up. It’s set to a local station, and every hackle on my body raises as I recognize the song playing: “Last Christmas.”

Now that Thanksgiving is over and done with, it’s officially Christmas music season.

Ugh.

Up ahead, a light turns red, and we grind to another halt.

As George Michael croons that he’s once bitten and twice shy, and how he needs to keep his distance, I’m in half a mind to thank Aaron for the ride and let him know I can take it from here as I bolt into traffic.

But then, he pushes another button on the console to sync his phone up to the car stereo. Thankfully, the Christmas song about a broken heart cuts out and is replaced by none other than Justin Bieber’s “Baby.”

I turn to stare at him. “You’re a Justin Bieber fan?”

Aaron laughs, and shakes his head. “Not really. But you seemed to hate the last song and I thought you might like it seeing as you used to play it to death back in high school.”

I remember everything about you, Olivia...

I bite down on my lower lip, trying to force away that pesky warmth again, just as Aaron, tone deaf and overconfident as ever, starts singing along at the top of his lungs, cooing and crooning ridiculously until I have no choice but to laugh.

And then, no choice but to join in. Because as bizarre as this moment is, he’s right. I loved this song back in high school, and even now, I belt it out word for word, hitting all the high “oooohs” his deep voice most definitely can’t reach.

As the song ends, Aaron chuckles, and the sound is almost… endearing. I have to look out the window to hide my smile.

It takes us the better part of forty-five minutes to get to my place, but by the time we arrive, we’ve been serenaded by most of Justin Bieber’s top hits.

“This is me,” I tell him, gesturing towards my building. “There’s no parking spots out front, so if you stop here, I’ll hop out.”

Aaron does not follow my instructions. Instead, he slows down, looks up at the building, then looks back at me. “You live here ?”

His stunned—and somewhat disapproving—tone gets my hackles raised again.

“Home sweet home.” It’s meant to be a joke, but the words come out more defensive than I mean them to.

I do, however, manage to refrain from adding “we can’t all be rich hockey players” to my defensive response, which I’d like to think is incredibly mindful and illustrates my newfound maturity.

Aaron suddenly jerks the car to the left with so much force, my bag slides off my seat, and he pulls into what is decidedly not a parking spot before turning off the car.

“What’re you doing?” I demand.

“Walking you up.”

“No, you’re not.” No way am I going to let him meet my crazy roommates. “You’ve already driven me home, and that’s more than enough. I can take it from here.”

As if on cue, two men skulk out of the shadows from the alley right next to us, blatantly ogling Aaron’s car as they pull their hoods up.

Aaron’s mouth presses into a firm line. “Yeah, no. That’s not happening.”

“It’s fine.” I wave a hand. “I come home late all the time from flights.” I nod towards the men, now standing on the sidewalk. “Don’t worry about those guys. It’s probably just Larry and a friend.”

“Larry?” Aaron’s voice goes up an octave.

“The local weed dealer,” I admit.

I only know this because the day I moved into the building, I was wheeling some suitcases towards the front door when Larry stepped in front of me, looked me up and down, and then asked me if I was in need of any broccoli.

I had no idea what that meant, but I assumed that he was not referring to the cruciferous vegetable. A quick google search confirmed that my instincts were correct, and Larry was not simply concerned about my folate and Vitamin C intake.

Because of our respective odd-houred schedules, Larry and I have crossed paths a few times. I wouldn’t say we’re friends, by any means, but we give each other that polite smile-nod greeting people do when they see acquaintances in passing. He even offered to pick the lock on my mailbox when it was stuck one time.

“He’s harmless,” I add reassuringly. “He’s actually a pretty nice guy.”

It’s obviously the wrong thing to say because Aaron scrubs a hand over his face. “I’m going to be having words with Jake about this,” he says darkly.

And then, despite my protests, he throws his door open and stalks around the car to open mine.

Defeated, I get out and check the lines on the road. “You’re illegally parked,” I inform him.

“I’m aware.” He grabs me by the elbow and begins to literally frog march me towards the front door of my own damn apartment building. His grip on my arm is firm, the pads of his fingers digging into my skin, but not hard enough that it hurts.

“Ouch,” I say anyway.

He loosens his grip by about one fraction of a millimeter.

“You don’t care about getting a ticket?” I ask, looking up at him as I trot along in a vain effort to match his pace.

“No.”

“Evening, Olivia.” Larry waves at me from where he’s still skulking about.

“Hi, Larry.”

“Who’s your friend? He looks familiar.” He peers at Aaron as we pass.

“Oh, he’s nobody,” I say, flustered.

Aaron just keeps marching for the door.

Once I let us inside, he relaxes a little. Tugs on my elbow so I’m forced to turn and look at him. “Nobody, huh?”

“Didn’t want your name associated with a literal drug dealer. Figured that wouldn’t be good for your career if the media got a hold of it.”

He looks surprised for a moment, but then nods. “That was good thinking. Thanks.” His gratitude is short-lived, though, because that scowl is back in the blink of an eye. “But while we’re on the subject of names, why does a drug dealer know yours?”

“That’s a long, broccoli-filled story.”

He stares at me blankly for a loaded moment before shaking his head. “Who are you, Olivia Griswold.”

It’s clearly a statement, not a question—a rhetorical question, at best—because he doesn't wait for an answer. Instead, he lets go of my arm and makes for the stairs. “What floor are you on?”

“No, no. No need to see me to my apartment.” I jog after him. “I’m safely inside now, and you’re going to get a parking ticket.” My mind whirs with concern, both for his car, and for him meeting my roommates if he keeps to his insistent plan. “What if it gets stolen or broken into or something?”

He barely lifts a shoulder before climbing the stairs. “Good thing I have insurance.”

“But you love your car.”

“Olivia.” He turns around and his eyes meet mine. “I don’t give a damn about my car right now. What I do give a damn about is getting you home safe. Will you please allow me to do that?”

There’s something so earnest about both his tone and his expression that I relent. Probably no use fighting him on this anyway—the man can be stubborn as a mule.

“Okay.” I shake my head. “But for the love of all that is holy, do not tell Romy who you are, or she will shake you down for every penny you’ve got on you.”

“Who’s Romy?” he asks as I direct him out of the stairwell.

At that very moment, down the hallway, the bagpipes start blaring. Old Greg is clearly getting into the holiday spirit, jamming out to “Jingle Bell Rock.”

Aaron turns to me, his expression one of total bafflement.

I smile sheepishly. “Sounds like Greg is practicing for the Christmas rave already.”

“Right.”

He’s looking at me with such horror that I have to laugh. “Welcome to the mad house, Marino.”

Because if I don’t laugh, I might cry.