“I’m sorry, Aspen. Shit. I didn’t know I was such a dick to you. I believe you, but I honestly don’t remember doing that.”
She just stands there, looking at me. Trying to read me, maybe.
“Will you forgive me?” I ask.
Her penetrating eyes lighten, and she stands there, unmoving, except for her blond, superhero hair tendrils whipping in the wind. Then she shrugs and nods. “Apology accepted.”
“Really?” I ask. She nods again, and there’s both a delicacy and strength to her face.
I want to reach out and touch her. I wonder if her hair is as silky as it looks.
“Yeah, why not?” she says. “I have a soft spot for homeless people… and people who apologize.”
I chuckle, and her eyes bore even deeper into mine, and my body heats. I suddenly wonder a lot more about her. I wonder what kinds of things she likes, hates, what she reads, what music she listens to. I wonder what her red lips taste like.
After a moment, she adds, “I’m sorry I said that about your mom. I was just a kid. Like you were, I guess.” A tiny smile tugs at the corners of her mouth, and she says, “So, yeah, I’m sorry, too.”
Fuck. What the hell just happened? My world is spinning backwards, with both clarity and confusion twisting in my brain. That girl from school—now, this gorgeous woman—whom I spent my senior year of high school hating, and erroneously blaming for my parents’ divorce… is making my heart race as though I’d never seen a woman before.
Faint drops of warm summer rain fall from the charcoal sky, and she glances up at it again, like she’s looking for more answers, but not to questions between us. Her face darkens. I swallow hard, and I feel like I need more air. I suddenly realize that I want to kiss her. No, I need to. And I realize I’m enjoying her presence, just having her standing near me. A surprise to me—not because it’s Aspen—but because it’s been a long time since I’ve been attracted to anyone like this. If ever.
But I admit, given our rocky history, it’s even more fascinating.
I step closer, and rapturous thoughts suffuse me. She looks back at me, ignoring the rain as it falls harder. It splashes wet on her face, and it seems to refresh her mind, because her eyes clear and half of her sexy mouth quirks up. I want to capture this moment—her beauty, and faraway expression, and the rain—and save it forever. I exhale.
“Well, glad we cleared that up,” she says. “Mystery solved.” And turning around, she runs across the wet asphalt, her long flaxen braid swinging behind her.
The rain pelts my face as I watch Aspen retreat into the bar. Even through the dark drops, I can see her curvy hips flow from her narrow waist. My mouth is dry, and I’m tempted to tip my head back to the sky and drink the rain.
Wow.
Holy fucking hell.
Fresh chills roll over my skin as my heart stirs. I want to pull on that braid and do wicked things with her. To her. My head is buzzing.
I want that woman.
But why? Why Aspen? Why now?
Is it lust? Her stunning beauty?
My lonely life?
No. There’s more. There’s something about her. The fiery determination in her voice, her attitude. It resonated. It woke something up deep inside me. And there’s that crazy pull toward her. A thirst in me.
Juice.
I just found my fucking juice.
The rain marks my $400 shirt, and I get into my car, wet, with one thing on my mind. Aspen. Clarity and confusion keep tangoing in my head, and I snort. I might be confused about why I’m going after her, but I’m crystal clear about one thing: that I will go after her.
I speed along the winding streets that skirt around the lake toward home, feeling electrified. Feeling calm. Feeling focused. I glance to the left, and between the houses and trees, I catch glimpses of the full moon reflecting down on the still lake, shining bright like Aspen’s angelic hair. I squeeze the steering wheel. I have to see her again.
Ten minutes later, I arrive home and head to the kitchen to grab a beer, before stepping out onto the covered portion of the deck with my black journal. I open to the page with her phone number, the one I scored from the chef at the country club. I see the scratched-out cherries I drew the other night, too. I chuckle. My subconscious must have been giving me a nudge when I drew them.
I turn to a new page in the journal and start sketching the cherries again, and my mind fills with pictures of her. I need a plan. I decide to see what I can find out about her online. I open up the internet on my phone and search for Gabby’s Rooster.
There she is. Pictures of Aspen and her mom on their website, with customers, and there’s also a link about kids’ baking classes that she teaches. I tap the link, and it takes me to a page with a registration button for the next class, and a bunch of pictures of her teaching the kids. I smile, seeing her so happy in the pictures with kids, and I’m reminded of her laugh.
There’s another link on the page for updates, and I read about her plans for The Rose Hotel. There was an update a couple of days ago about having secured an investor, and things were moving forward. I overheard differently when she spoke to the bartender. No wonder she was slamming those gin and tonics. Guess I caught her at a bad time.
I’m about to exit the website, when I see a link about donations. Everyone and their sister has a Patreon account. I tap it, but it’s not for donations
