Aaron: Casanova Club #7

by Ali Parker

  I found Piper sitting at the island with my book in one hand and a mug of coffee in the other.

  She glanced up at me over the top of the pages of my book, her brown eyes giving me a brief up and down. I couldn’t see her mouth or nose, so I had no idea what she was thinking.

  “Morning,” she said before flipping the page and then taking a sip of her coffee. “There’s more coffee in the pot. And I made breakfast. I was keeping it warm in the oven for you.”

  “You made breakfast?” I asked lamely.

  She looked up at me again, and I was fairly certain by the warmth in her eyes that she was smiling. “Yes. I hope that’s all right.”

  She hoped it was all right that she got up and made breakfast?

  “Of course, it is,” I said before going about making myself a cup of coffee and opening the oven to see what she’d prepared.

  In a pan was what appeared to be a soufflé of some sort. Or a quiche.

  I pulled it out and peered down at it.

  “It’s called a wife saver breakfast,” Piper said.

  I looked over my shoulder at her as she slid a bookmark between the pages of my book and set it down on the counter. Then she slid off her stool and padded over to me. She was wearing a loose pair of gray pants that were very wide around her ankles and swished about as she walked, and a matching shirt tucked into the waistband. She looked elegant and classy, despite the fact that she was more or less wearing pajamas.

  Piper cut into the breakfast and slid the piece on a plate for me. “My mom makes this every year for breakfast on Christmas morning. Super easy and tasty. You don’t have any allergies, do you?”

  “No.”

  “Good.” She smiled before retreating back to her stool and retaking her spot to sip her coffee.

  I sat on the stool beside her and dug into the breakfast she’d prepared. It was a hell of a lot better than the plain toast I’d been eating for weeks on end while I worked on my current manuscript, and I told her so.

  “I’m glad you like it,” she said, now clasping her mug in both hands while she watched me eat.

  “I don’t deserve it.”

  She arched an eyebrow. “Don’t deserve it?”

  “I don’t think I’ve been a very good host.”

  She sat up a little straighter and looked at me out of the corner of her eye. “Well, I wouldn’t worry about that too much. We have all month to get to know each other. Besides, this process is weird. And disruptive. I mean, I’m basically ambushing you.”

  I shook my head and chuckled. “No, you’re not.”

  “By the sheer definition of it, yes I am. I’m encroaching on your home, which is also where you do your business. If I were you, I probably wouldn’t be too happy about it. Especially since your work is creative and you’re clearly very inspired to write. I’m sorry that the timing worked out that way.”

  Piper James was full of surprises.

  “Do you know any other writers?” I asked.

  She shook her head. “No, but I’ve known some artists.” She broke our gaze and looked down at her coffee. “He was like you in the sense that when he was inspired, he had to put his brush to canvas to make the idea real. And if he didn’t do it, he feared it would get away from him.”

  “That’s pretty spot on.”

  She crossed one leg over the other. “So, on that note, did you get a lot done last night?”

  After she and I had chatted on the balcony and her fatigue had gotten the better of her, I’d decided to sit down and write. She seemed all right with it because she couldn’t fight the yawns that crept up on her every five minutes or so.

  “I did,” I said. “I was up until a little after three in the morning.”

  “No wonder you needed to get some extra sleep this morning,” she mused.

  “Sorry about that again. I feel bad for you having to get up by yourself.”

  “I really don’t mind. I live with a roommate. Quiet mornings to myself are not part of my normal reality. So, when I get them, I try to take advantage. Hence the breakfast.” Piper flashed a smile at me before draining the rest of her coffee.

  She went to the sink and cleaned her mug, and I finished the remaining breakfast on my plate.

  “Are you working today as well?” Piper asked as she dried the mug.

  “I was thinking about that. Maybe we could get out of the apartment and spend the day together?”

  She smiled. “I’d like that.”

  “Yeah?” I asked, optimistic about her interest in spending the day together. After how I’d royally fucked up the last eighteen hours, I had my doubts that she’d be keen on getting to know me better. Then again, we had a whole month ahead of us.

  Piper nodded. “Did you have something in mind?”

  Damn it. I hadn’t thought that far ahead.

  Was I so far out of the dating scene that I’d completely forgotten all about proper courting etiquette?

  For fuck’s sake, I wrote about it on a near daily basis, but now that it was time to put it into action, I was floundering around like a fish out of water.

  “I don’t,” I said hesitantly.

  Piper leaned on the kitchen island. “Well, I’ve never been to Kingston before. Maybe you could take me out and show me some nice spots to grab a drink? Sit on some patios. Soak in the city. What do you think?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “All right.” She grinned. “Let me just get changed and do something with this hair. I just need fifteen minutes or so.”

  “Take your time.”

  Piper disappeared into her bedroom, leaving me sitting at the island with a racing mind.

  This was not my speed.

  I was the guy who liked to sit at home and have a quiet evening in. I liked sipping wine—or whiskey—and watching movies or reading a good book. I liked places with no crowds where I could put my feet up and get comfortable.

  At some point in this author career of mine, I’d become a total introvert.

  There was a time when I was the guy who went out to the bars and the clubs, and I reveled in the attention of strangers. But as the years slipped by and my writing became my one and only love, that changed.

  Today was going to be out of my comfort zone. Far out of my comfort zone.

  But what was the alternative? Staying where I felt most at ease and keeping Piper cooped up in my apartment for the whole month?

  That wasn’t fair.

  She was full of life, and I could tell by the glint in her eye that she had a thirst for adventure. It was my duty to show her a good time while she was here, and if I was lucky, maybe I’d be able to win a little bit of her affection.

  She was a beautiful woman. Sweet, too. And I had the sense that there were hundreds of layers to her, pieces I couldn’t see yet, but I wanted to. I wanted to know everything about her. Where she came from, what her childhood was like, why she signed up for the Casanova Club, what her favorite food was, her first memory.

  Everything.

  And today was only the beginning of the next month. I could take my time and do this right.

  Starting now. No more fuck ups. No more bullshit.

  This was my time with the girl who I knew for a fact the other men she’d spent time with had fallen head over heels for. I could tell the night of the Memorial Day party that she was something special to them.

  The cowboy.

  The photographer.

  The logger.

  The Canadian.

  The question was, how special were they to her?

  Chapter 5

  Piper

  Aaron took me to the Uptown Kingston Historic District.

  When he told me about it, I hadn’t the foggiest idea of what to expect. Sure, the word “historic” tipped me off that there might be some old buildings, maybe some cobblestone streets, and some dingy old pubs for us to pop into and have some appetizers and a cold beer, but I was not expecting what I found when Aaron pulled his luxury sedan to the
curb and put it in park.

  We were on a one-way street lined in mostly three-story buildings, apartments mostly, as well as some offices. Each building was old—shocker—with a colonial style. They were color blocked to tell them apart in shades of pale pinks, yellows, blues, and greens. The ground level of all the buildings boasted quaint little shops specializing in various products: clothes, baby items, baked goods, antiques, ice cream, coffee, pets, and plenty more.

  The whole place had a very relaxed and pleasant atmosphere.

  Couples walked down sidewalks protected from the sun by arches that provided comfortable shade and reminded me of the walkways in old western towns. Balconies on second levels on corner businesses, mostly restaurants, overlooked pedestrian intersections down below, and I imagined some time long ago, there used to be parlor girls up there waving at the men out on the dirt roads, trying to lure them into their business and up to the second floor to make a pretty penny off of their lust.

  To each their own.

  Aaron popped his door open and got out of the car. I followed quickly, stepping out onto the sidewalk and looking both ways down the line of shops, trying to decide which way to go.

  There were so many options.

  Aaron met me on my side of the car and pointed down the street in the same direction the cars were facing. “If we go up there and hook a right, there are more shops and restaurants and some local street vendors. They close it all down to cars on weekends and host an open market.”

  “That sounds fun.” I grinned, thinking back to the market I went to with Jeremiah and with Wyatt. It was always a fun way to immerse myself in their way of life by seeing what the locals were crafting and selling.

  Aaron and I started down the sidewalk.

  “Do you come down here often?” I asked.

  He shook his head and slipped his hands in his jean pockets. “No, actually. Hardly at all. I don’t think I’ve been in years.”

  “Years?”

  He smirked and looked at the sidewalk as we walked. “Yeah. I think I’ve become a bit of a hermit over the years. Shocker, right? A writer who prefers the solitude of his apartment.”

  I smiled at him. “There are stereotypes for a reason, right?”

  He chuckled. “Are you calling me a stereotype?”

  “No, I was merely implying you were one.”

  He laughed a little louder. It was good to see and hear him loosen up a little bit. The drive had been a tad uncomfortable. I got the sense that he was a bit out of his element and equally as nervous as I was. We barely spoke a word to each other and chose to listen to the radio for the thirty-five-minute drive to get here.

  “I’m not offended. Don’t worry. And I am a stereotype.”

  “A good stereotype, I think.”

  We wandered down to a cross street and took a right. And just as Aaron said, we walked right into the midst of a street market. Vendors’ colorful tents were pitched down the street as far as the eye could see. Live music from somewhere up ahead drifted toward us on the air, and so did the sweet smells of cinnamon buns and cakes, as well as savory scents of baked bread and cheese and onions.

  My mouth instantly started watering.

  “I’m going to have to get myself one of those cinnamon buns,” I said, craning my neck to try to spot where the tent was amongst the sea of other vendors.

  “We can make that happen. If memory serves me correctly, there is a beer garden at the opposite end with tables.”

  “Awesome,” I said as we ducked and wove through the crowd.

  I was not distracted by the tables loaded down with beautiful handcrafted jewelry or silk scarves. My mind was set on the decadent, gooey, cinnamon treat in my near future.

  When we stumbled upon our destination, we fell into line behind about ten people and began inching closer and closer to the front.

  Aaron ordered us each a cinnamon bun and paid for our order. Once we had our sticky dessert in hand on paper plates, we took them through the final stretch of the market and found the beer garden Aaron had told me about. It was fenced off by one of those pop-up plastic white picket fences, and a security guard checked our identification before letting us in. Then Aaron picked us up two ciders from the bar, and we found a seat with a view of the market in the sunshine.

  I picked my cinnamon bun apart with my fingers and popped small morsels in my mouth. “This is uh-mazing.”

  Aaron watched as my eyes practically rolled back in my head. “I’m glad you like it.”

  “Seriously, I consider myself a good baker and cook, but I could never pull off something like this. The texture. The fluffiness. The creamy icing—” I broke off, widening my eyes a bit. “Sorry. I’m gushing over food. Tell me something about yourself, Aaron.”

  His mouth was full of a cinnamon bun, and he covered it with one hand until he swallowed. Then he pushed his glasses higher up his nose. “What do you want to know?”

  I shrugged. “Whatever you want to tell, I guess. Here. I’ll start. I have a little brother named Phillip, and he and I work for my mom and dad at their shitty restaurant in downtown New York City.”

  He blinked at me.

  “What?” I asked, cocking my head to the side.

  “Why is it a shitty restaurant?”

  “It’s dying a slow, depressing death. And I think I’m at a point now where all I feel for the place is bitter resentment, whereas my parents still see it as this wonderful, amazing place where they started their life. They let that cloud their judgment. So instead of recognizing that it’s run its course and cutting it loose, they’re holding on to it tighter than ever. So. Yeah. There’s some of my personal bullshit for you to chew on.”

  Aaron shifted in his seat. “I’m sorry for your folks. That sounds rough.”

  I sighed. “Thanks. It is. We’ve had a lot of arguments over it.”

  “I can imagine. Family can be tricky.”

  “What’s your family like?”

  “Well,” he said, hesitating for a moment. “We hit a bit of a rough patch recently and I needed to take some space.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry.” Why did I keep doing this shit and putting my foot in my mouth? So many of these men had complicated relationships with their families or no family at all, and here I was, always the girl complaining about the one she was lucky enough to still have.

  “Don’t be sorry. I’m sure it’s temporary. When the dust settles things will go back to how they used to be.”

  “May I ask what happened?”

  He studied me like he was reading the back of a book cover. He then apparently concluded that I could be trusted. “ “This happened. The Casanova Club.”

  “Oh?”

  “My parents have been pretty involved in my dating life for the last little while. They don’t like how much time I spend alone. Actually, that’s not quite right. My mother doesn’t like how much time I spend alone and my father will always back her up. She wants me to marry a good Christian girl from a stable family. Someone who will tend house and cook and bake and be like the daughter she never had.”

  “Sounds like a lot of mothers if I’m being honest,” I said, trying to put a positive spin on it.

  He chuckled. “Yes. I suppose. But the whole dating thing has been a sore spot for a while. When I told her I was doing this I thought she was going to blow a fuse. Words were said that neither of us can take back. I miss her. I miss them both.”

  * * *

  “How did you cope with it?”

  “Writing.”

  I smiled. “Of course. Why did I even need to ask?”

  He grinned sheepishly. “It’s funny. My writing has always been there to get me through some pretty dark times. It’s everything. My passion and my career. Funny how things can turn into something more than you ever could have imagined.”

  “Yeah. Funny.”

  Aaron leaned back in his chair and let out a contented sigh. Both our plates were empty, and he tipped his face back to the sun and closed
his eyes.

  I watched him for a moment. Watched the pulse in his throat, a steady flutter, and the way his chest rose and fell with content breaths.

  “What are you thinking about?” I asked.

  He lifted his head to peer at me. “My book.”

  I crossed my arms on the table and leaned in. “Can you tell me what it’s about? It’s okay if you’d rather not talk about it. But I’m curious.”

  “I can tell you,” he said, his eyes lighting up with excitement.

  I smiled and inched even closer to him.

  He spoke animatedly and with his hands once he got going. “It’s about a young woman whose life has finally fallen into place. She’s dating the perfect guy, and they just bought their first home together. It’s in an affluent neighborhood with lots of young families, and she can see her future there. Everything is exactly as it should be.” He paused for dramatic effect.

  “Until?” I pushed, unable to help myself. “The house is haunted? Wait, no! Her husband is a serial killer. No?”

  Aaron was chuckling and shaking his head.

  It was the most I’d gotten out of him since I’d shown up at his place the day before, and I didn’t want to lose this momentum.

  I drummed my fingers on the table. “She turns into a vampire? Or she falls in love with the neighbor?”

  Aaron held up his hands. “All right, all right, I’ll tell you.”

  I beamed at him. “Please do. Clearly, I’m a shitty storyteller.”

  He shrugged. “I didn’t mind the serial killer pitch.”

  I waved him off. “Don’t flatter me. I know it was trash. Come on. Spill the goods.”

  The writer before me leaned in close—so close that our elbows were almost touching. The sun gleamed on the lenses of his glasses for a split second, and when it passed, I found myself staring into the most intense blue eyes I’d ever seen.

  He looked around and dropped his voice as if he were telling me a deep, personal secret. “One morning, before the sun rises, there’s a knock on their front door. Her husband goes down to answer it. She calls down to him, wondering what’s taking so long, and when he doesn’t answer, she goes down to see if everything is okay. And naturally, everything is not okay. She emerges at the top of the stairs to see her husband dragging a bloody corpse over the threshold of the door, and he looks up at her.”