As we walked down the street, I silently begged the universe for one thing.
Aaron chuckled beside me, clearly reading my mood. "I know the feeling. We're almost there."
The scenery shifted as we moved farther from the polished heart of Manhattan. The sidewalks grew cracked, the lighting dimmer, and the buildings looked more lived-in than curated. Then, like neon salvation, a glowing sign blinked at us from the corner.
"Well, would you look at that," Aaron said, grinning sideways. "Half bar, huh?"
I rolled my eyes, already guessing where his mind was going. "We have work tomorrow," I warned. "I'm not rolling into the office hungover and useless."
Aaron raised both hands in mock surrender but held the door open for me anyway.
The place was straight out of a vintage film. Roller-skating waitresses zipped between booths, their fluffy polka-dot dresses bouncing with every glide. A jukebox crooned something classic from the corner, and the scent of grilled meat and fryer oil made my stomach growl.
I slid into a booth, and instead of taking the seat across from me, Aaron sat right next to me. Before I could say anything, he was already on his phone again.
I nudged it gently down to the table. "We're about to eat. Work can wait."
He glanced at me, then switched it off. "True."
Before I could say more, my phone started buzzing. I glanced at the screen—and sighed. Of course.
Before I could hit decline, Aaron casually plucked it from my hand and answered it himself.
"Alaina can't talk right now," he said smoothly. "We're about to have dinner." Then he hung up and slipped the phone into my purse.
I stared at him, eyebrows raised. "Excuse me?"
He shrugged, unapologetic. "Your words, not mine."
I tried to stay mad, but his grin softened, and I couldn't help but smirk.
"Was that your boyfriend?" he asked, voice teasing but with an edge of curiosity.
My fingers knotted together on the table. Aaron's eyes caught the motion. He was studying me now—not playfully, but intently.
"No," I said quietly. "It's my ex."
His expression shifted. Not pity or discomfort—he looked almost pleased. Intrigued, even.
Before either of us could say more, a blonde waitress with overly glossy lips and an even glossier smile appeared beside our table. Her chest strained against her uniform as she dropped off two menus.
"I thought you'd never come back here," she said to Aaron, her red lipstick smudging slightly as she smiled—at him, not me.
Aaron just laughed and glanced at me, his face unreadable.
She placed the tray down and asked, "What can I get you both?"
I ordered a strawberry milkshake. Aaron asked for vanilla. The waitress jotted it down, gave him one last lingering look, and rolled away like she was in a perfume commercial.
I turned to him, brows raised. "Do I even want to know what that was about?"
Aaron didn't look up from his menu. "Had a little fling with her."
I blinked. "Define 'little.'"
He cleared his throat. "Three months ago."
I laughed dryly and raised my menu just high enough to hide my expression. Of course it was recent. Of course she still looked like she might throw herself into his lap.
She returned with our milkshakes, took our food orders, and right before leaving, not-so-subtly slid a folded note across the table toward Aaron.
Big mistake.
I grabbed the note before he could and read it aloud.
I stood abruptly, my chair scraping back.
Aaron reached out and gently tugged my wrist, easing me back down into the booth.
Without a word, he took the note, crumpled it, and tossed it into the empty booth behind us.
I let out a breath I didn't realize I'd been holding. Trying to forget the note—and the woman who'd written it—I leaned on the table and took a big spoonful of whipped cream from my milkshake.
When I settled back, Aaron was watching me, lips curled into a devilish smile.
"You've got a little something…" he gestured toward my lip.
I dabbed at it with a napkin. "Did I get it?"
Aaron leaned in, voice low. "Nope. Missed a spot."
And then he kissed me—slow, teasing. He licked the whipped cream from my lip first, then kissed me again, deeper this time, before pulling back like nothing had happened.
A loud broke the moment. The waitress slapped a stack of napkins onto the table and glared at me like I'd just stolen her car.
I blinked as she stormed away.
"I have the weirdest feeling she spit on my burger," I muttered.
Aaron just grinned. "I think you're right."
Needless to say, we didn't stay long. My appetite was shot.
We ended up grabbing hot dogs from a cart near my building. I picked at mine, but my thoughts were elsewhere—still tangled up in the heat of Aaron's kiss.
"I'm sorry about tonight," he said quietly. "That wasn't how I pictured it."
I gave him a small shrug, unsure what to say. We reached the steps to my apartment. He leaned in, ready for another kiss.
But this time, I pressed a finger to his lips, stopping him.
He paused, then smiled, softer this time.
"I'll see you tomorrow, Miss Jackson."
And with that, he turned and walked away, leaving me standing there with my heart doing flips.
Back in my room, I couldn't stop replaying the night in my head. The kiss. The note. His hand on my wrist. The way his eyes changed when I mentioned my ex.
What were we even doing?
A fling? A mistake?
Or maybe—just maybe—something more.