Forbidden - Karla Sorensen Page 0,97

about figuring out the person you’re with,” he said. “I learned a lot about you that night.”

“Like …?” My voice trailed off.

His fingers dragged along my back, and I shivered. “You don’t like to burden people with what’s bothering you. Talking about it probably makes it worse.” At the accurate statement, I lifted my chin slightly. He kept going. “You couldn’t decide whether you loved it or hated it that I’d been watching you that closely and you didn’t realize it. Normally you’ve always got a bead on what’s happening.”

“True,” I conceded. “What else?”

“When it surfaces, you harness your anger into something productive, something tangible, probably so that you don’t lash out at the people around you.”

I fidgeted on the couch, my breath coming a bit faster that he’d picked up all of that just from one night.

Aiden leaned in, our knees touching, and he angled his body so that we gained even more privacy. “And me saying this to you makes you want to run, just a little.”

Undaunted by the flutterings of panic that his spot-on assessment caused, I met his gaze head-on. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“No?” he asked in a rough, uneven voice. When I shook my head, he tipped his head down and slid his mouth over mine for a sweet, slow kiss. My tongue slipped to the seam of his lips, but he pulled back. “No more, woman. You’re killing me.”

My smile was full of satisfaction because he sounded like he was walking a razor edge of restraint.

“Second date then,” I said.

“Deal.” He sat back, allowing for a safer distance between us, given we were both feeling the need to mount each other in public.

“Where’s Anya tonight?” I asked.

“My parents’.” He pulled out his phone and showed me a picture that had me laughing out loud.

“Is that your dad?”

“It is.”

I took the phone from his hand and zoomed in on the image. Anya was standing on their kitchen counter behind a man who looked like Aiden might in about twenty years. They shared the same jaw, the same nose, the same build. And his dad, judging by the pleased smile on his face, was perfectly content to let his granddaughter put foam rollers into his slightly graying hair.

“May I?” I gestured to the picture. He nodded. I swiped through a few pictures, studied one of his mom. “Your parents look young, considering…” I stopped, not sure how to say, considering how old you are.

Aiden laughed softly. “You calling me old?”

I bit my lip to smother my grin. “No.”

He took the phone out of my hand and found a shot of his whole family, then let me study it. Just like my family, they held such a strong resemblance to each other but still managed to be a perfect balance of his parents.

“My parents were fifteen when they met,” he said. “Sixteen when my mom got pregnant with me.”

My eyes lifted in surprise. “Seriously?”

He nodded. “They got married before I turned two but knew they were still too young to add more kids into the mix.” Aiden pointed at the faces on the picture. “Beckham came when I was ten, then Clark, Deacon was next.” And when he gestured to a woman who looked younger than me, I found that I liked her broad smile and the way she looked like she was laughing. “And because she could be nothing other than the youngest and spoiled rotten, Eloise was the Hennessy family grand finale.”

“Wow,” I breathed. Before I could say anything else, a gentle tap on my shoulder pulled my attention from Aiden. It was the wedding coordinator.

“Sorry to interrupt, Isabel. We’re going to announce the wedding party, and then you can come back. Since Molly and Noah just have a table for the two of them, I only need to steal you away for a few minutes.”

Aiden smiled, joining me as I stood. The perfect gentleman on an unconventional first date.

And that continued, once I was able to join him at the table we were sharing with my sisters and their men. He kept a hand curled around my thigh under the table, engaging in pleasant conversation with everyone as we ate. Occasionally, he’d lean in and ask me something random, switching his hand from resting on my thigh, to stretching out behind my back along my chair.

“Favorite movie?”

I hummed. “I rarely watch them, so it’s hard to pick.”

“Really?” he said, clearly surprised.

“But,” I amended, “I love a good sports documentary.”

“Me too.” He leaned in for