30. Aaron

30

AARON

The morning after the gala, I don’t go to the arena.

Instead, I lie in bed, eyes closed, replaying every moment of last night on repeat.

Because I kissed Olivia Griswold, and instead of punching me in the face, she kissed me back. With an intensity that told me she was as into it as I was.

I don’t think I’ll ever get enough of that sassy, pouty, perfect mouth of hers. I can still taste her. Still feel how soft her skin was under my hands. And I think I’ll forever be undone by the sounds she made while I kissed her neck and explored, learning what she liked, what made her back arch, what made her whimper, what made her say my name like that.

My name has never, ever sounded so good.

When I asked Olivia to come to the gala with me to outbid Brandi, I would have never in my wildest dreams imagined that the night could end like that.

“Focus, Aaron,” I mutter to myself, shaking off my lust-drenched thoughts and finally slipping out of bed.

I pad downstairs and pick up bottles and take-out pizza boxes, cleaning up until all remnants of last night’s party have been squared away.

Well, almost all remnants…

I still can’t stop thinking about her. Can’t wait to see her when she wakes up.

I want to do something nice for her.

Which brings me to my next task: make Olivia a breakfast burrito. She’s viewing some apartments this morning before she does a round-trip flight to Miami.

My culinary experience is pretty much nil, with the exception of my soup extravaganza last week, but I’m feeling confident enough. I have no idea how Olivia is feeling after last night, but I do know that she can’t feel worse in the face of her favorite breakfast.

I can’t believe that, for years, she thought that I thought she wasn’t good enough for me. The very notion is absurd. Although it explains so much, and I’m glad to have set the record straight. I wish I could have done so a long time ago. Saved us years of unresolved tension.

But the past is in the past. All I can do now is move forward with whatever this is, or could be, between Olivia and me.

Telling Lieberman we were together last night felt good. And while I was relieved to see that the GM wasn’t too displeased with me, I was more focused on how Olivia blushed when I declared that I only want to date her from now on.

Which is actually very true.

Because whatever this is between us, I’m here for it.

As I crack eggs into a bowl, my phone buzzes with a FaceTime call from my mom.

“Morning,” I answer, propping my phone up on the counter.

“Good morning.” Mom blinks. “Why are you at home?”

“Well, I do live here.” I start to add some twists of black pepper to my bowl of eggs.

“Hardly!” she scoffs. “I almost forgot what your kitchen looked like. And since when do you cook? First, you call Nonna for help with the soup that I know you never, ever make. And now, you’re whipping up…” She squints at my bowl. “An omelet?”

“Breakfast burritos,” I say with a chuckle as I walk to the fridge in search of breakfast sausages.

“Hmm, I see,” my mom says suspiciously.

“Just over a week until I’m home,” I change the subject. “I can’t wait. Any snow in the forecast?”

“Tons of it.” Mom looks excited. I didn’t get my love of Christmas from nowhere—my mom is its biggest fan. “Rachael’s boys are so excited for Uncle Aaron to come sledding with them.”

We always had a million festive traditions when I was growing up: sledding with my dad, uncles, and cousins, then stuffing our faces with Nonna’s panettone; attending a candlelight Christmas Eve carol service, followed by a feast of seafood; watching Miracle on 34th Street on Christmas morning with hot cocoa topped with extra whipped cream.

In case you haven’t heard, we Italians love our food.

Speaking of which…

“Dammit!” I yelp. The eggs are burning and I hurtle towards them, grabbing the pan off the stove, but it’s too late. They smell terrible.

And then, I hear the creak of a bedroom door opening upstairs.

“Mom, I’ve got to go,” I tell her as I stare at the burnt eggs. Gross.

“Why?” she prompts. “Is ‘Nobody’ there with you?”

I laugh, remembering our last conversation. “No, Mom. She’s definitely not nobody.”

Far from it. I want Olivia to know what last night meant to me. How serious I was when I said I’d dreamed about her so many times.

Tomorrow afternoon, she flies to Southeast Asia for a few days, so today is the last time I’ll be able to spend proper, quality time with her until right before I go home for Christmas.

“I knew it!” Mom announces triumphantly. “Do I need to add a place at the Christmas dinner table?”

“No, no, Mom,” I say, hearing footsteps on the stairs. “It’s not like that.”

But a part of me wonders if it could be like that. The thought of Olivia sitting here alone at Christmas while I’m with my massive family just feels wrong.

I know she wouldn’t accept an invitation to fly to New Jersey with me for the holidays, but I wonder if there’s anything I can do to soften some of her bad memories by replacing them with better ones.

Just like I want to put the past in the past and show her how much I like her, I also wonder if I can help her put the past in the past with the holidays.

Suddenly, I get an idea. A damn good idea that will help me achieve both of those things.

“Well, what is it like?” Mom demands, eyes glinting.

Like nothing I’ve ever experienced.

“I’m not sure yet,” I say, the most honest answer I can speak aloud.

Mom gives me a terrifying wink. “Well, if you really want to impress her, I’d toss those eggs in the trash and order takeout.”

Laughing to herself, she hangs up just as Olivia enters the kitchen.

At the very sight of her, my heart picks up speed. She’s barefoot with her face free of makeup, dressed in an oversized Giants hoodie and leggings. Her hair’s in a top knot, she’s wearing her glasses, and the sight of her does something to me on such a deep level, I’m knocked off-kilter for a moment.

“Hi,” she says, her voice soft and throaty. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Oh, no. It was just my mom on the phone.” I point sheepishly to the mess on the counter. “I was, uh, trying to make breakfast. Failing, too.”

“I can see that.” She laughs, her face shining. All I want to do is make her laugh for as long as I can. “Do you need some help?”

“Do I look like a man who needs help, Griswold?”

She raises a smug brow as she studies the mess in the kitchen. “Yes.”

“Well luckily, I have a better idea,” I tell her . “Before we check out your apartment options, wanna hit up Essy’s?”

“Now you’re speaking my language, Marino.”