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Where stories begin.

Sunday morning dawns brilliant blue. The rainclouds have been chased away by the sun, and for the first time in weeks, it’s gorgeous out.

Aidan makes us breakfast—scrambled eggs, of course, but also toast and bacon—then we shower together. He hums as he washes my body, grins as he towels me dry afterward, whistles as we dress.

Aidan in a good mood is intoxicating. With his face lit up, he’s even more handsome than usual.

Because the weather’s nice, he suggests we make the trip to the house on his bike. When I agree and tell him I used to ride motocross when I was a kid, he stares at me in disbelief, looking me up and down.

“You?”

“Don’t judge a book by its cover, lover boy. I know I look like the girl next door, but inside, I’m more like The Girl With the Dragon Tattoo.” I pause to think. “Except without the tattoos, the genius IQ, the computer skills, or the eidetic memory.” Then I brighten. “I am antisocial, though.”

Aidan chuckles. “What you are is adorable.”

“Right?” I agree, pretending that didn’t just make me light up like the sun.

“Yes. Let’s see if I have a jacket you can wear, bunny.”

“I won’t fit into one of your ginormous jackets.”

He rummages around in his closet, emerging with a black leather bomber so large, I might as well use it as a tent and go camping in it.

Smiling at my expression, he orders, “Put it on.”

I climb into it. Then I stand there looking like somebody’s idea of a hilarious joke. “If I wear this, the wind will catch me, and I’ll sail behind you like a balloon.”

“Don’t worry, my giant helmet will weigh you down.”

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