Cheryl’s POV
If I were to write an autobiography, the opening chapter would probably start with this very moment—standing in front of the mirror in my shorts that stopped mid-thigh and the prettiest top I owned, debating whether to apply a coat of lip gloss or just accept my fate as the human embodiment of “meh.” Spoiler alert: I skipped the gloss. Not because I didn’t want to look nice, but because Aiden’s deep, gravelly voice had called out my name from downstairs, and I panicked.
By the time I grabbed my bag and made it out of the room, Aiden was already halfway out the door, car keys jingling in his hand like he was a game show host and those keys were the grand prize.
“Where are you going with those?” I asked, pointing at the keys, my voice sharp enough to make him pause mid-step.
