truth.
The more time passed, the harder it may be for her to understand why he kept his past a secret. When he heard her story and realized what was at stake, his words dried up and withered on his tongue. How could he tell her he was the son of the Pasta King? She’d refuse to see him, imagining the same historic hell repeating itself in her life. He needed more time. Time to convince her to look past his money and crap, and see the man he was. Hell, wasn’t that his whole goal to his undercover operation? To find a woman who loved him for nothing but his soul?
A humorless laugh strangled against his lips. His plan had backfired. He wasn’t afraid Isabella craved his money. Instead, terror choked him at the possibility of her rejection because he was rich. Michael, the dickhead, ruined her. Now Aidan had three strikes. He owned money, fame and came from the city.
Of course, the question would never be if Isabella was good enough for him and his family. Aidan already knew the real question. Would she think he was good enough for her?
His father nipped at his heels to make a decision. He had little time left.
“Aidan?” His name cut through the frigid air and caressed his ears like Beethoven. She smiled at him and placed a kiss on his lips. “Where did you go?”
“Come home with me, Isabella.”
Her voice trembled. “Yes.”
Triumph coursed through him. He stroked her cheek, determined to make tonight the best evening she ever had. “I’ll cook you dinner. But first we need to lay here a while.”
She frowned. “Did you really get hurt?”
“No, I don’t want to give the kids a shock.”
She glanced down at the hardened bulge in his pants and let out a loud, clear laugh that rang down the mountain. “Good idea.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’re definitely a city boy. You suck at sledding.”
He winked. “Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoyed the view.” His slipped his hand under her jacket and squeezed her buttocks, which sent her into another fit of laughter. She slapped his grabbing fingers away, glancing around to see if they’d been noticed. He grinned, rolled over and stood up. Fat flakes of snow clung to her stylish knit hat and nestled their way in between silky strands of hair peeking out from the edges. Her lips were bright pink, swollen, and glistened wetly. The thought of those lips on other parts of his anatomy surged, and the uncomfortable cold and dampness suddenly eased. God, he couldn’t wait to get her alone, naked, and underneath him, open and—
“Look out below!”
The war chant echoed down the slopes in warning but it was too late. Aidan stumbled back as several hard-launched snowballs hit him in the face and chest. His breath cut out at the icy sharpness as snow exploded in his mouth, up his nostrils, and in the gap of his jacket.
“What the hell?” His yell barely registered under the sudden shock as three teenage boys came into view. Piles of snowballs held in their hands like machine gun artillery, they stared at him with disrespect and impatience.
“Sorry, man, you got caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah, dude, hope you weren’t hurt.” The second teen’s words ended in a snicker, obviously disgusted at the idea of a grown man not able to take a few snowballs.
Aidan opened his mouth to defend his wimpy actions but five feet of bristling feminine fury jumped in front of him.
“How dare you hit Mr. Hunter?” Isabella spit out, her finger jabbing at each of them. “Peter, Mark, Tommy, you should be ashamed of yourselves. You know the rules about snowball fights. Before you fire, you look for innocent bystanders.”
Aidan’s mouth dropped open. He waited for the gangly, testosterone tempered teens to bitchily complain to her, or make fun of her tirade, but to his astonishment, they all looked abashed. “Sorry, Ms. Summers.” Mark dropped his head. “Didn’t see you.”
“Who was your target?” Isabella demanded.
Tommy raised a finger to
The more time passed, the harder it may be for her to understand why he kept his past a secret. When he heard her story and realized what was at stake, his words dried up and withered on his tongue. How could he tell her he was the son of the Pasta King? She’d refuse to see him, imagining the same historic hell repeating itself in her life. He needed more time. Time to convince her to look past his money and crap, and see the man he was. Hell, wasn’t that his whole goal to his undercover operation? To find a woman who loved him for nothing but his soul?
A humorless laugh strangled against his lips. His plan had backfired. He wasn’t afraid Isabella craved his money. Instead, terror choked him at the possibility of her rejection because he was rich. Michael, the dickhead, ruined her. Now Aidan had three strikes. He owned money, fame and came from the city.
Of course, the question would never be if Isabella was good enough for him and his family. Aidan already knew the real question. Would she think he was good enough for her?
His father nipped at his heels to make a decision. He had little time left.
“Aidan?” His name cut through the frigid air and caressed his ears like Beethoven. She smiled at him and placed a kiss on his lips. “Where did you go?”
“Come home with me, Isabella.”
Her voice trembled. “Yes.”
Triumph coursed through him. He stroked her cheek, determined to make tonight the best evening she ever had. “I’ll cook you dinner. But first we need to lay here a while.”
She frowned. “Did you really get hurt?”
“No, I don’t want to give the kids a shock.”
She glanced down at the hardened bulge in his pants and let out a loud, clear laugh that rang down the mountain. “Good idea.” Her eyes sparkled with mischief. “You’re definitely a city boy. You suck at sledding.”
He winked. “Maybe. Or maybe I just enjoyed the view.” His slipped his hand under her jacket and squeezed her buttocks, which sent her into another fit of laughter. She slapped his grabbing fingers away, glancing around to see if they’d been noticed. He grinned, rolled over and stood up. Fat flakes of snow clung to her stylish knit hat and nestled their way in between silky strands of hair peeking out from the edges. Her lips were bright pink, swollen, and glistened wetly. The thought of those lips on other parts of his anatomy surged, and the uncomfortable cold and dampness suddenly eased. God, he couldn’t wait to get her alone, naked, and underneath him, open and—
“Look out below!”
The war chant echoed down the slopes in warning but it was too late. Aidan stumbled back as several hard-launched snowballs hit him in the face and chest. His breath cut out at the icy sharpness as snow exploded in his mouth, up his nostrils, and in the gap of his jacket.
“What the hell?” His yell barely registered under the sudden shock as three teenage boys came into view. Piles of snowballs held in their hands like machine gun artillery, they stared at him with disrespect and impatience.
“Sorry, man, you got caught in the crossfire.”
“Yeah, dude, hope you weren’t hurt.” The second teen’s words ended in a snicker, obviously disgusted at the idea of a grown man not able to take a few snowballs.
Aidan opened his mouth to defend his wimpy actions but five feet of bristling feminine fury jumped in front of him.
“How dare you hit Mr. Hunter?” Isabella spit out, her finger jabbing at each of them. “Peter, Mark, Tommy, you should be ashamed of yourselves. You know the rules about snowball fights. Before you fire, you look for innocent bystanders.”
Aidan’s mouth dropped open. He waited for the gangly, testosterone tempered teens to bitchily complain to her, or make fun of her tirade, but to his astonishment, they all looked abashed. “Sorry, Ms. Summers.” Mark dropped his head. “Didn’t see you.”
“Who was your target?” Isabella demanded.
Tommy raised a finger to
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