Page 105 of That Rush

“And I keep choosing to show up.”

The certainty in his voice stops my next argument.

Aiden slides the box beside the folded tablecloth and leftover signing supplies. Cardboard scrapes against cardboard before he steps back.

“I invited you to the ranch last weekend,” he says. “Just us. I changed the plan because I listened when you said the crowds were the problem.”

“And I went.”

“For one morning.”

“I’m sorry. Was there a minimum attendance requirement?”

He goes very still. “That’s exactly what I mean. Every time I ask you to be part of my life, you act like I slipped a contract beneath the invitation.”

“Your invitations used to come with half the Slade family attached.”

“They did.”

“You kept asking me to walk into rooms full of people when I told you I wanted time with you.”

“I heard you.”

“Eventually.”

“Yes, eventually.” He pushes away from the SUV. “Then I brought dinner to your cabin. I learned your trails. I sat in a hammock built for one while you kept reading. I read the romance novel you handed me, spent an afternoon at the library, and came here tonight because these things matter to you.”

“You make that sound like a burden.”

“They aren’t.” His voice drops. “That’s the point. I wanted to know your life because I want to know you.”

I pick up the storage bin because I need somewhere to put my hands. The plastic edge bites into my palms.

Aiden steps closer, though he leaves space between us. “I know how you take your coffee. I know which days you close the library, what you read when you’re tired, and the trail you use when you need to think. You know my family is large and my house is on a ranch.”

“That’s a skewed comparison.”

“And it’s not fair that you act like I’m trying to steal something every time I just ask you to show up.”

“I’m protecting a life I like.”

“I know, Paige. I like your life too.” Frustration roughens his voice. “I’m asking whether there is room in it for the parts of me that don’t fit at your cabin.”

I hate how exposed that makes me feel because he has a point. I set the bin down harder than necessary.

“Your family doesn’t do anything halfway. One dinner becomes Sunday breakfast, then a birthday, then a cookout with cousins I’ve never met. Everyone starts assuming I’ll be there before anyone remembers to ask.”

“Then I tell them to ask.”

“And if I say no?”

“Then you’d stay home and read your book.”

“You say that now.”

His expression hardens. “You keep asking me to prove I’ll respect choices you haven’t given me the chance to respect.”

The last reader pulls out of the lot. Headlights sweep across the cooling pavement and disappear.