Pumpkin Spice and Not So Nice

by Becky Monson

Once, at the previous spa I worked at before moving to Aspen Lake, I asked the owner of the place—a very stoic and quiet man—if he was having a good morning, but instead of morning, I said horny. As in: Are you having a good horny? There’s not been a day that goes by that I don’t think about that.

“I don’t want to be compared to a donkey.” “You’d rather be compared to a butt?” He just shrugs. “I’ve been called worse.”

He’s in a navy-blue V-neck sweater and jeans, and his feet are bare. It suddenly feels kind of intimate to be here with Aidan, at his house, with his naked feet.

Naked feet made me guffaw

“I hate that I hurt you, and that I was so . . . so wrong about you,” I choke up on the words, my eyes filling with tears. “I want you to know every little thing about me. I want to share it all with you. And I—” “I love you,” he says, cutting me off. I blink my eyes at him. “What?” “I’m in love with you.”