Chapter 10: MUMMY'S STEW

When I pulled into the driveway, Aiden’s car was already there, as usual. The sight was becoming a routine—his sleek black beast parked like it owned the place. Maybe it did. And maybe I was just the guest who kept forgetting he owned the place. As I stepped inside, the smell hit me first—garlic, tomatoes, something savory—and then I saw him.

There he was, standing in the kitchen, shirtless, of course, because apparently, shirts were for losers. He had one hand on a pot and the other holding a wooden spoon like some culinary Picasso. A glass of wine sat on the counter, perfectly untouched, like a model in a photo shoot.

“Are you… cooking?” I said, announcing myself like an emcee at a circus. Aiden turned to face me, a small smile tugging at his lips but never quite reaching his eyes. Something was off, and my “what’s-wrong-now” radar beeped quietly in the background.

“I had never in my life imagined I’d see you, Aiden Scott, cooking anything,” I added, inching closer. “Shirtless, for that matter.” Okay, I whispered that last part because I’m not a complete lunatic.

“Here, try this,” he said, interrupting my internal monologue. He held up a steaming spoon toward my lips, and I hesitated. I mean, sure, there was the whole childhood-bully thing, but what was I going to do? Refuse stew? Not likely.

I took a sip, and holy flavors, Batman! My taste buds did a little dance party. “Hmm, that’s nice,” I said, sounding like a judge on a cooking show.

“Right? My mom used to make it all the time. It’s basically my childhood in a pot.” There was a sadness in his voice, a little crack in the armor he wore so well.

Before I could think of something to say, he reached out, swiping a finger across my lips. Goosebumps exploded like a confetti cannon. And then, because apparently, the universe hates me, he licked his fingers. Casual as anything.

“There was some stew,” he said, like that explained everything. Meanwhile, I was debating whether to implode or evaporate.

“I heard something about my mom today,” he said, breaking the awkward silence just as I turned to leave.

I turned back to him, my curiosity on high alert. “What happened?”

He sighed, stirring the pot absentmindedly. “I was driving near East Park, and I stopped at this old coffee shop. There was an older lady there, and she said I looked like someone she used to know,  a homeless woman who hung around the coffee shop some years back… Evelyn Scott.” His voice cracked slightly, and he cleared his throat.

“Did she know where your mom might be?” I asked, hoping for some light in this obviously dark tunnel.

Aiden shook his head. “She hadn’t seen or heard from her in years. She said she just… disappeared one day. No explanation, no trace, no nothing”

The sadness in his eyes was like a punch to the chest. This was the same guy who’d made my teenage years a living hell, and yet here I was, wanting to fix it for him.

“I need to find her, Tiny,” he said, his voice quiet but firm. “I know she’s out there somewhere, waiting for me to find her and I need to find her. ”

An idea sparked in my brain like a cartoon light bulb. “Okay,” I said, “you said she lived on the streets for a while before she disappeared?”

He nodded.

“Then maybe she told someone. Like, a friend or another homeless person. She must’ve definitely told someone something and all we need to do is just find that person.”

Aiden raised an eyebrow. “How do you propose we do that?”

“Simple. It’s a small town. We ask every homeless person we can find. Someone’s got to know something.”

He stared at me, processing. “That’s… not a terrible idea.”

“You’re welcome,” I said with a cocky smile, turning to leave.

“But you said ‘we,’” he called after me. I froze. Oh, crap.

“Oh,” I said, spinning back around. “I mean, sure, I’ll help you.”

He put the spoon down and started walking toward me. Slowly. Non-threateningly. But still, every step made the air feel heavier. By the time he was a few feet away, I was ready to combust.

“Why?” he asked, his voice low. “Why would you want to help the same guy who bullied you all through high school find his poor, drug-addicted, probably-dead mother?”

“Beats me,” I muttered. “But what kind of person would I be if I held that against you?”

“A normal person who’s been screwed over by the world,” he said.

I sighed. “Well, if you don’t want me to—”

He grabbed my hand, cutting me off. His touch sent an electric shock up my arm. “I didn’t say that,” he said softly. “I want you there.”

He took another step closer, his eyes boring into mine. “You’re one of a kind, Cheryl Taylor, and I’ve been an idiot not to notice it sooner.”

His face was inches from mine now, and for a moment, I thought… But then my phone rang, shattering the moment like a wrecking ball.

I jumped back, fumbling for my bag. When I finally fished out my phone, my heart nearly stopped.

Damon Bass.

I stared at the screen, then back at Aiden, whose eyes narrowed. He didn’t say anything, but his expression said it all. This wasn’t over.