4. Meredith

Chapter 4

Meredith

I t had been a good day. I adored a good shopping spree, and Aiden was a perfect model, patient and quiet, save for the occasional questions about my personal life or witty quips. He was a good time.

I sifted through denim button-downs while he changed in a room next to me. I loved him in cool tones, and while he didn't seem to have a preference, he had told me on multiple occasions, "Whatever you think is best."

Which was exactly the correct answer.

"How ya doing in there?" I asked, knocking on the door.

"Good. I like these."

Even though I knew every member of the Hart family and had spent time with each of them at one point or another, I didn't know much about Aiden. Until today.

I learned he often whistled absently, cracked his knuckles when bored, and could have a full-on discussion about Taylor Swift's discography. Claire and I had first bonded over Taylor when we met in college, but I never expected the soft-spoken accountant to become so animated over friendship bracelets and possible allusions to famous ex-boyfriends.

It was delightful.

He was delightful.

"Lemme see," I said, helping myself to open the dressing room door since that was where Aiden and I were at now. He didn't shy away from me either. In fact, he spun around, holding his arms out to the sides, and I nearly swallowed my tongue.

Aiden fucking Hart was shredded .

"What?" he asked when I remained silent, eyes bugging.

"I, uh…"

He dipped his chin, checking himself out, tugging on the waistband of his jeans. "Are they not good?" He pivoted, studying his ass in the mirror. "I thought they were okay."

"No, they're fine." I cleared my throat. "They're good."

When he faced me again, his brows arched up over the dark rim of his glasses. "Why do you look like that?"

I closed my mouth, snapping out of the six-pack delirium, and shot my arm out. "Why do you look like that ?"

He checked himself out in the mirror. "Like what?"

I rolled my eyes and swept my hand down the length of him. He'd been hiding all that—the lean muscle of chest and back, the dark hair on his pecs that narrowed to a line down his taut, stacked abs, the trim waist—under baggy and misshapen clothes. "Aiden, you're… You know you have this?" I slashed my hands up and down by my hips, mimicking where his muscles popped on either side of his hips. "That thing. The Adonis muscle thing." I swiped my palm over my forehead. "Do you not know how hot you are?"

It was torture, honestly. To know what he was packing underneath all his geek chic.

He raked his fingers through his hair so the soft waves stuck up in different directions. Without a shirt and with the messy hair, he looked thoroughly well fucked, and it screwed with my mind.

"I didn't…" He trailed off with a shrug. "I mean…" He dragged his hands down his flat stomach. "It doesn't occur to me, I guess."

"What do you mean, it doesn't occur to you?"

He snagged the shirt from my hand, the reason I'd opened the door to begin with, and slipped it on over his shoulders before buttoning it up. "I was a fat kid, not super athletic and not really interested in sports like my brothers. It wasn't until I was older and hit a growth spurt that I started losing weight, but I still didn't…" He rolled his shoulders a few times, plucking at the denim before turning to me. "I was into video games and good at math, and it never occurred to me that girls might actually like me or the way I looked."

I tugged on the shirt, picked at invisible lint by his collarbone. "You have no confidence in yourself?"

"I'm still working on it," he admitted with a reluctant half-smile. "You help."

I pretended his honesty didn't hit me like a slap in the face. I helped?

Didn't he know how much he had to offer? Besides his heart and intellect, this was the icing on the cake.

"I'm not doing anything besides picking out some clothes that actually fit you," I said, and he shrugged.

"Yeah, but… It's nice."

I brushed my hands along his shoulders, then stepped back to admire him in the dark jeans and wonderfully worn shirt. "I don't usually like denim on denim, but I had a hunch you could pull it off. You could also wear this open," I said, undoing the top few buttons. "Wear a white shirt underneath and…ugh."

I let out an obnoxious sex noise, and he laughed, low and rough. "You're ridiculous. Over the top and dramatic." Before I had a chance to be offended, he wrapped his fingers around my wrist. "I like it. I'm curious to know how you are when you're not trying to hide whatever it is you're trying to hide."

I heaved a sigh as if he was nuts and tossed my hair over my shoulder.

Because no way would he be finding out, it was all a defense mechanism. The volume of my voice, my big personality, the extra ; it was an effort to compensate for what I looked like, which was simply genetics. I didn't want to be known for my double Ds and long legs, rather what was underneath all that. And after a while—after learning it was difficult for not only men but women to get past it all—I stopped trying to prove I had brains and started leaning into the life of the party thing .

It was easier that way.

"All right, Rube," I said, because I wanted to remind him who was in charge here. "Get changed and then you're taking me out to dinner to express your gratitude for making you a stud. I'm in the mood for a burger."

He agreed and released his hold on me, thank god.

I waited outside while Aiden changed back into his clothes, hoping to quell the completely unexpected heat that simmered in my belly at the way he looked at me, as if he really saw me, or at least tried to. And I'm not sure which of those options made me more anxious.

Because I was the one in control at all times. I was the one who decided when and where and to whom I was attracted to. Sure, I played the game, but they were my rules.

And Aiden Hart, with his terrible fashion sense and unassuming personality, threw me for a goddamn loop.

He didn't know the rules. Didn't even know how to play the game.

But, fuck, if that didn't soften my hardened heart.

It was dangerous. Especially when he strolled out of the store, moved his glasses higher up his nose, and grinned at me. "Let's go eat, teach."

Over burgers, he asked me questions about my job as a speech therapist and repeatedly complimented me on my plan to earn my doctorate. In return, he told me how he got into endurance running in college—because a girl he had liked ran every day, so he did too. They became friends, but that was it. The friend-zone problem had apparently been a long one.

"And where did the abs come from? Fairy godmother came and poof?" I asked, snapping.

"It took a few years." He tossed his napkin on his empty plate and jut his chin at mine. I pushed it toward him, so he could help himself to my leftover fries. "I like the order of training, seeing the calculations of distance and pace. But eventually I got bored with only running, so I started biking and swimming too. Completed a few triathlons."

I felt my eyes go wide. "Wow."

"It's not that big of a deal."

"Completing triathlons is a big deal, Aiden. It's amazing."

He pitched his lips to the side, and I tried and failed to not imagine what he looked like without a shirt.

Dangerous.

Very dangerous.

So, I shifted the conversation to safer ground: Celeste. "You text your girl yet?"

My words came out completely smooth. Even as I rubbed my hand over my chest, my heart beating a little funny.

He shook his head. "Not sure what to say."

"All right then. Let's do it together," I said, and he eyed me for a moment, like he wasn't sure. "Come on, we spent all day together. You still don't trust me to help you?"

His nostrils flared and shoulders rose on a deep breath before he produced his cell phone. He tapped on it a few times, then set his forearms on the table and staring at me, waiting for directions.

"Okay, you want to start easy. Something like, hey, it's Aiden from the bar last night. Just texting to let you know I really enjoyed talking and would love to spend more time together. Sooner rather than later." I flattened my hand, swiping it through the air. "Setting a timeframe lets her know you're serious."

He nodded and typed it up, then went back to polishing off my French fries. By the time he finished, Celeste hadn't returned his text, and I could see his anxiety in the way his mouth tightened in the corner, how his fingers moved like it itched to do something with them.

Once the bill was paid, he checked his phone again, as if him playing with it would make her magically respond.

I stood up from the booth. "Don't worry. She'll text you back."

He didn't answer, merely followed me out to the door.

I smoothed my hand over his shoulder and down his back. "She was into you. I know she'll text you back."

"Here's hoping."

We settled into my car and talked about nothing in particular. Or, really, I talked, and Aiden brooded. I couldn't take it anymore. "One last piece of advice for today." I stopped at a red light. "Your goal for this whole thing is marriage, kids, picket fence, and all that, right? So, you need to put that out into the universe. Manifest it. Think you have a lot in common with Celeste, and that she will text you back. If you think she won't talk to you or like you or whatever, you're already closing yourself off to the next step to get to your goal. Be open to the possibilities."

I pressed on the gas, driving through the green light as I glanced to Aiden next to me. "If it's not Celeste, it'll be someone else. You deserve to get what you want. That's what you need to tell yourself. You deserve to get what you want."

He didn't reply, only rubbed his hand over his mouth. But once I parked in front of his building, he turned to me. "You always get what you want, huh?"

I gave him a cheeky wink and a smile.

He didn't fall for it. "What is it you don't think you deserve to get?"

I clucked my tongue and folded my arms under my chest. His gaze never wavered from mine, and I didn't like it.

Didn't like how he seemed to want to solve me like a Rubik's Cube.

"I deserve to get everything I want, and I do," I said. "I set goals, and I attain them."

He tipped his head to the side, his seriously thoughtful eyes making a circuit of my features. Eventually, he asked, "So what is it? What is it you're trying to hide all the time?"

I stared out of the windshield at the setting sun. "Why are you so interested?"

"I like patterns and puzzles and problem solving."

"You think I'm a problem to solve?"

"No," he rasped rough like sandpaper. "I think you want someone to see you. I think you want someone to be interested enough to know where to look."

I blinked. Then blinked again at the stinging in my eyes, but other than that, I didn't dare move. I couldn't. I wouldn't give myself away.

I wasn't hiding , per se. Simply worried that once people saw the real me, I wouldn't be good enough for them.

So, I kept it buried and deflected.

Once I knew my face was intact, I turned back to him. "You would've made a killing as a therapist."

He cracked a smile. Barely. Then he briefly squeezed my knee before reaching into the backseat for his bags. "Thanks for today."

"Yeah. No problem. And let me know what Celeste says when she texts you back."

"Okay."

"Think positive!" I reminded him as he shut his door.

And I wouldn't analyze why I felt so churlish about the text message I knew he would receive.