I hated that feeling.

I met them outside, squirming inwardly as Aidan’s eyes flickered down my body and back up again. Without meaning to, my hand went to my hair, my fingers rubbing against the short strands at my nape in a self-conscious movement. For the first time since cutting it, I felt a pang of regret.

Jim hadn’t been the only one who’d liked my hair.

I liked my hair.

Being short with slender curves and a propensity toward wearing jeans and shorts, my hair had made me feel feminine. I’d loved that I could wear it down, curl it, braid it, throw it up in a messy bun. Anything. It always made me feel pretty.

Huh.

I guess I hadn’t really realized that about my hair until right then. Somehow, I thought I’d kept it long for Jim but I hadn’t. Not really.

It should’ve taken me, just me, to realize I didn’t like my freaking hair short. Not a guy! Certainly not this guy.

Deciding right there and then I couldn’t care less what Aidan Lennox thought about my looks, I threw my shoulders back and walked. They fell into step beside me.

“Uncle Aidan said I can get mac and cheese again if they have it.”

Mac and cheese always sounded good. I might have had butterflies, but I could eat around them. Maybe carbs would crush the little bastards. “Sounds great.”

That was it? That was all I was going to say? Why were words deserting me?

Thankfully, Sylvie continued to chatter as we entered the cafeteria, and as we waited in line for our food. Aidan paid for my lunch and when I thanked him, he waved my words away.

Irritation bubbled under my skin but I let it go. He’d gone from teasing me back at the common room with the kids, to stoic silence and a blank expression I quite frankly wanted to smack off his face.

I liked being able to read people.

“So, Nora. What’s your surname?” Aidan said as soon as we took a seat.

“Surely your private investigator can find that out,” I cracked.

He smirked. “I’d rather not have to pay him to find out something you can tell me.”

Weirdly, I didn’t think he was joking about having a PI.

“It’s O’Brien,” I said, even though technically, it was still McAlister.

“Uncle Aidan thought you were brilliant, didn’t you, Uncle Aidan?” Sylvie piped up before shoving a huge forkful of macaroni into her mouth.

There was that annoying smirk again. “Very entertaining.”

My eyes narrowed, not knowing whether he was being condescending. “Thank you?”

“Where do you work?” he asked abruptly.

“A shop,” I said.

He looked unamused by my vagueness. “Aye, would I know it?”

“Probably not.” I turned to Sylvie. “The mac and cheese is good, right?”

“Not as good as my mum’s but it’s okay. Can you make mac and cheese?” Her eyes lit up at the thought.

“It’s not my specialty, I’m afraid.” I’d learned to cook growing up because I had to, but it wasn’t something I’d ever really enjoyed.

“What is your specialty?” Aidan questioned.

He was intimidating me with his interrogative tone but I refused to let him realize that. “I’m killer with a takeaway menu. I can order in five seconds flat.”

Reluctant amusement flitted across his expression. “You don’t cook. You work in a shop. And you volunteer at a sick kids’ hospital. Not a lot to go on there.”

Trying to steer the conversation away from me, I replied, “Do you cook?”

“I dabble.”

“Uncle Aidan is a great cook,” Sylvie said.

Surprise, surprise.

“He learned a lot from traveling, didn’t you, Uncle Aidan?”

He gazed down at her fondly, and I realized he hadn’t touched a drop of the soup or any of the salad in front of him. To be fair, the salad looked like it had been foraged a month ago. “I did.”

Not really wanting to know but needing to keep the conversation off me, I asked, “Where have you traveled?”

“Your neck of the woods. A lot. China, Japan, Australia, New Zealand, Russia, most of mainland Europe, Scandinavia, Israel, Poland, Bulgaria, South Africa …” I knew that list went on.

I suddenly felt very young, uncultured, and inexperienced, and it prompted me to ask, “What age are you?”

Aidan raised an eyebrow at my somewhat abrupt question. His eyes drifted over my face, seeming to linger on my mouth before moving back up to meet my stare. The blood beneath my cheeks warmed at his perusal. “What age are you?”

Realizing I would have to give him information to receive information, I was honest. “Twenty-two.”

He frowned in thought. “Are you sure we haven’t met? You remind me of someone.”

“I don’t think so.”

“You haven’t told her what age you are.” Sylvie stared innocently at her uncle. “Nora told you.”

He grinned at her. “Is that how it works?”

“It’s only fair.”

“She’s right,” I agreed.

Aidan leaned back in his chair, pushing his uneaten tray aside. “I’m thirty-four.”

“He’s old,” Sylvie teased.

Twelve years older than me. Twelve more years of experience. Of traveling the world.

God, I must appear like some silly, weird kid to him, hanging around hospitals pretending to be Peter Pan.

“Old?” He pressed a hand to his chest like she’d wounded him, reminding me of that moment in the supermarket. How could he not remember me? The air between us had been so charged.

There was tension still between us now. But it was different. Back then, he’d looked at me with curiosity, maybe even a little fascination. Now he was careful with me. Reserved.

Understandable. Because now I was involved in his kid’s life. I wasn’t just some girl in a supermarket he might have found a little attractive.

“Not that old,” Sylvie amended, grinning. She had cheese sauce around her mouth, and I watched as Aidan folded up a napkin and leaned over to gently wipe it. Sylvie took it from him to finish the job. A pang echoed in my chest at the ordinary but sweet gesture. His expression may have been guarded with me, but every time he looked at his niece, he didn’t hide the fact that he adored her.

My curiosity about him grew. “Sylvie said you’re a music producer?”

He nodded, his countenance changing when he looked at me. It was like he had an emotional portcullis that lifted when he turned to Sylvie and slammed shut when he addressed me. “That’s right. That’s where the traveling came in. I don’t travel as much now.” He looked at Sylvie who was sopping up the last of her macaroni with bread. “For obvious reasons.”

“What instruments do you play?”

He frowned.

I shifted uncomfortably. “What?”

“Nothing.” He shook his head. “That’s not what people usually ask.”

“Really?” I made a face. “When you tell people you’re a music producer, they don’t ask if you can play an instrument or two?”

“The first thing most people ask is who I’ve worked with.”

Understanding dawned. “They want to know about the famous people?”

He nodded.

Did that mean he wanted to brag about the famous people? Because that was not an attractive quality in anybody.

“I don’t really care,” I told him, straight up. “They’re merely people with more Instagram followers than most.”

“Is that right?”

I wondered if I’d insulted him. “Not to say that they don’t deserve their fame … or that you don’t work hard,” I scrambled to explain, “I just … I mean, I’m more impressed with the actual music than the fame … part. Or … I’m not explaining it very well.”

“You’re explaining it fine. I don’t care about the fame part, either. I like working with talented people.”

“Like David Bowie,” Sylvie said.

David Bowie? I think my jaw hit the table. “You know who David Bowie is?”