Aaron ran a hand through his hair, and stared at the buzzer outside of Darla’s apartment. They’d separated after the rink, each of them going home to change. He was probably coming on too strong. One sort-of date at the cocoa shop, then he whisks her away from work to ice skate and now he was taking her to 48 where paparazzi stormed like ants at a picnic? Yeah, this was a mistake. He turned away from the buzzer, prepared to call her and tell her something came up. But he didn’t have her number. He could probably get it from her café—but were they open at eight o’clock on a Monday night? He always did this. Rushed head-long into every situation good or bad. Darla was good. Real good. But he was supposed to be mourning—was mourning. And yet, he knew a good thing when he saw it, and he couldn’t let her go. Not yet. “Damn.” Her whirled back to the buzzer and stabbed it with his finger.
