The front door swung open.
I hadn't turned on the lights. I just sat there in the darkness like a ghost.
Aiden walked in, trailing cold night air behind him.
As he drew closer, the stench hit me—alcohol and something cloyingly sweet. Perfume.
Mon Paris.
The same fragrance that girl at the bar had been wearing.
Aiden seemed surprised to find me still awake. His steps faltered for a fraction of a second before he recovered, striding over and reaching out to hold me.
"Why are you sitting in the dark? I thought you said you'd gone to bed."
His voice carried the perfect note of jet-lagged exhaustion. Flawless performance.
I shifted away, dodging his arms.
"Just woke up."
I flicked on the lamp. Harsh white light flooded the living room.
It also illuminated the smear of red lipstick on his collar.
Aiden followed my gaze downward. He saw the mark.
He didn't even flinch.
"Some fan got too close at the airport." He unknotted his tie with practiced ease and tossed it onto the sofa, his tone bored. "You know how it is. Some of them are... intense."
Once, I would have believed him.
I would have ached for him, taken his shirt to wash, made him hangover soup.
Now? I almost laughed.
"Is that so?"