Thirty Nights (American Beauty #1)(37)

“Elisa, I have memorized for life everything you’re hiding. So you might as well let me enjoy the show.”

He’s right, idiot. He’s seen it all. Still, I pick up my dress and clutch it to my chest, blushing head to toe. He uncoils from the bed covers and saunters my way in nothing but flawless skin. I know he is walking at his normal pace but it looks like slow motion to me. In fact, I’m pretty sure angels are singing.

“Doing some memorizing yourself, Elisa?”

“Not really. Just realizing that memory does not do reality justice.”

He smiles but this time, the dimple does not form in his cheek. “Depends on the memory,” he says so quietly that I’m not sure I heard him right.

He reaches me, covers my hands with his and pries the dress from my fingers. His eyes start a path from the roots of my hair to my curled toes. He leans in, his mouth to my ear.

“Don’t hide from me.” His breath sends a fiery current over my skin. But the instant my breathing picks up, he pulls away.

“Tempting though you are, I don’t want you to be sore. You have to sit for your painting tomorrow.” He winks, and just like that, his humor returns.

Oh, bloody hell, my painting! Will he still insist on that when he hears the truth?

He strides into his walk-in closet—or rather, walk-in apartment—taking my dress with him.

“I don’t think my dress will fit you, Aiden. Might be a bit tight around the—ah—groin.”

He laughs that waterfall laughter again. The closet lights flicker as he crosses the threshold. He flits to the far back, the muscles of his exposed back rippling with tension even from this distance. Why? What causes this? I want to ask but I’m sure the reasons are embargoed.

He puts on a pair of dark jeans and a navy sweater with blinding speed. Then he digs some clothes from a polished wood dresser and is back to me in seconds.

I look at the mountain of clothes, horrified. “These are for me?”

“Yes. It’s cool out and you only have your dress with you.”

Before I can open my mouth, he slides a white short-sleeved T-shirt over my head, then a long-sleeved one, then a navy hooded sweatshirt. They all fall to my knees. He kneels in front of me and guides my legs into a pair of gray sweatpants.

“Aiden, do you think this is going a little overboard? Considering that it’s May in Portland, Oregon, not winter in the Arctic tundra?”

“Not at all,” he says, lifting my right foot. He kisses my toe and slides a woolen sock over it. He repeats the process with my left foot and tops off the preparation for the Ice Age by sliding a knit hat over my head until it covers my eyebrows. He steps back, regarding his handiwork with solemn deliberation.

“Are you sure we don’t need a scarf and gloves? Or a biohazard suit?”

“Don’t tempt me.” He smiles and swats my behind. “You’ll do. Come, let’s go fend off the elements.”

“I look ridiculous.”

“I’d still f*ck you.”

“That’s rude.”

“But true.”

“I’m sweating.”

“Even better.”

“Aiden, honestly, can I at least take off the hat? I can barely see. I’ll trip.”

“No, you won’t,” he says, picking me up like I weigh as much as the hat, not twice my normal pounds from all the fabric layered over me.

I wrap my arms around his neck. His ever-present tension relaxes and he marches out of the bedroom with purpose.

The moment the night air whips my skin, I’m grateful for my Eskimo attire. The wind is sharper up here than in town. Aiden sets me down by the Aston Martin and opens my door. For the first time since the accident, I wish I had my own car so I could drive instead of giving directions. Hmm, on second thought, then I couldn’t stare at him.

Aiden folds gracefully into the driver seat despite his tall frame, and turns on the ignition. He presses a button on the steering wheel and “Für Elise” fills the car.

My eyes fly to his. He smiles. “It seems appropriate.”

“My mum named me after this,” I volunteer, surprised at how easily the words leave my mouth.

“It suits you. It has a calming quality, I think.”

“Calming? You mean soporific?”

He laughs. “We’ve already established you keep me up at night. So, no, soporific is not appropriate. Where to, Elisa?”

“Down the hill, to the left.”

I listen to the melody as the Aston Martin curves smoothly, its light beams piercing the thick darkness. Every few seconds, my eyes flit to Aiden’s face. There is a different kind of beauty about him now—something that glows underneath. The music changes to the “Moonlight Sonata” as we take the final curve. The closer we get, the louder my heart beats until it drowns even the angelic piano. I keep my eyes ahead where in a few meters, the tall, rose hedges will appear.

“Ah!” Aiden smiles. “The Rose Garden.”

I nod, rolling down the window. The moist May air steals inside, heavy with the scent of early blooms. Aiden parks the car and scans the night with sharp vigilance. It’s so intense that I follow his gaze, half expecting shadows to morph from the darkness. But there is nothing.

He gets out and comes to my window. He brushes his knuckles along my cheek. “Sure you want to be here?”