My horror is instantaneous.

I'd already dove through files on him, scoured every sentence. The paperwork detailed that Aidan Hughes wife and two year old daughter were found dead in the woods three years ago. There wasn't much else. No coroner's report. No mention of a river. Aidan would have been twenty-nine at the time.

"Aidan," I breathe, gaping. "I-I..."

"The only reason I am telling you that is because it's common knowledge that they are gone," he says, cutting me off. He hasn't turned around, and I'm glad for it because he'd find a pale, repentant woman looking his way.

"I didn't know or I wouldn't have..."

"You're honestly telling me you didn't know they were dead? Or you didn't know they drowned?"

"Drowned."

"Well, you'll have a fine addition to your story then," he says, angrily.

"I will never publish anything without your consent, Aidan," I say, walking up to him. I lay a hand upon his back, somehow feeling his pain through his body. It radiates through my palm and manages to drain my energy. "All you have to do is say it's off the record and I will never tell. I promise."

"And I'm supposed to trust that?"

"I'm not a monster," I whisper, shocked by how sharp he's become.

"Journalists are monsters in my eyes," he responds, tearing himself away from my touch. My eyes helplessly follow him, every part of me yearning to rewind time back to five minutes ago, where awkward tension was my only worry.

"Journalists are very different from paparazzi," I press.

"No, they're not."

I blink, appalled. "Excuse me?"

He spins, his eyes, once a dull shade of grey, now swarm with contempt and rage. "You all dig, and dig, and pry, and force us to relieve every detail of our lives for your own personal gain. I've been hounded for years by you people. Paparazzi and journalists and goddamn reporters alike! Lily was barely cold in the ground before people started lining those gates, pretending as if they somehow had the right to demand answers from me."

"I'm truly offended you think I'm anything like them," I snap, eyes wide. My chest feels swollen, swollen enough to hurt.

"Have you given me any reason not to believe that's why you're trying to get to know me? Sure, you divulged a bit of your life story and made me remember what it was like to want someone, but in reality, you're here because you want something. And every move I make, you are watching, and the fact that I'm drawn to you like a moth to a fucking flame is probably because that's exactly what you want!"

We stare at each other for a few seconds. I watch his chest deflate and his eyes lose their spirit, feeling nothing but judgment and anger. My arms are crossed protectively over my body, not because the room is cold, but because he's brought down a very sharp barrier between us that wasn't there a moment ago.

If I had any questions on whether he felt what I was feeling, he's answered them now. He thinks I'm seducing him, for a story. He thinks that's how I work, that I'm a slut. The embarrassment I'd pushed aside in my deliriousness is suddenly upon me with bludgeoning strength. I can hardly look at him.

"Just say you want it off the damn record," I snap, focusing on the table beside his body.

"I want it off the record," he breathes, his fury dissipating, replaced by what sounds like exhaustion. I nod, curtly and walk past him.

"Done," I say, stomping up the stairs and away from him. I want to be as far away from him as possible. I make it to the end of the hall before my feet slow, and I allow the argument to set in.

His anger is justified. And while he's said a lot about me that isn't true, his experience with media has been poor, and invasive. And he has a point. I'm here for the ultimate story. The see-all into his interesting life.

But, that's just it.

This is his life. His very sad, scary life, one that he bears through every day.

In a matter of seconds, I'm taking the steps back down carefully, tucking his insults somewhere I can momentarily forget them. I reach the bottom, and my heart clenches at the sight of him hunched over the table, arms braced like before, his head bowed in his thoughts.

I don't know what is hidden deep within this man, nor how desperate he is to keep the burdens all to himself, but I do know he probably doesn't deserve it. He doesn't seem like a man who could hurt anyone intentionally—let alone commit murder.

"I wasn't..." he looks up at the sound of my voice, "telling you those things because I wanted to get into bed with you. I do want your trust, and I've only now realized how hard it is for you to give, but I'd like to say before I go upstairs that I am sorry for my openness and unprofessionalism. I never meant to—"

He closes his eyes in regret, shaking his head. "No, don't."

"Listen to me," I say, firmly. He does, but his eyes remain on the table. "I've gone all over the world, and performed every type of interview you can imagine. I've...I've interviewed someone on a camel before, and I've given an interview to a man on death row, who told me his final thoughts before he was sent to the electric chair in the morning. I don't stalk, and I don't beg. I am not a cheap shot reporter or paparazzi. I have pride in what I do, and I attempt to make the world better rather than worse. Whether you choose to believe that is up to you."

I grab onto the railing, having said my peace, all apart from one thing.

"I'm not going to write about your family, Aidan."

He finally looks at me, his eyes wide like a boys. Like a small boy.

"Thank you for showing me your work," I finish, taking the steps back upstairs. He lets me leave and instead of wandering, I find my way back to the guest room and shut myself inside.

My back flattens against the door, my blood drained from my face. I'd woken this morning in shame. I had no idea I'd endure more of it before noon. His words sit on my mouth with a sour taste, and I can't help but relive them over and over, berating myself for my attraction to this man.

The reading nook is cold due to the proximity to the window, but it's the nearest thing to freedom so I snatch the quilt off the bed and drag it to the corner, taking a seat on the cushioned bench.

I begin to truly regret making the drive here, knowing full well a storm was coming. I should have thought this through. Instead, I leaped at the first opportunity and underestimated the man I was meeting. I not only underestimated his intelligence, and the length of his sorrow. I underestimated the depth of him.

I've said it multiple times now.

Aidan Hughes is a story, a means to an end.

So, in reflection, he's not all that wrong about me, is he?

My body is weak, tired and sad. The view from the window does nothing to help with my mood, providing nothing but falling snow. The more I see, the more I'm reminded that I'm stuck here with a man who loathes the sight of me.

I'm not surprised to hear the door knock. I suspected amends would have to be made, for the sake of our time here. But I'm not leaping to answer it. I haven't had enough time to think, and judge my next move.

He knocks again at my lack of answer.

"Josephine?"

Seconds tick by and he doesn't say anything else. I direct my gaze back to the window, intending to stay here until dinner or even until morning if I can make it that long. It's been minutes before I hear him again, and it becomes clear he hasn't left the barrier.

"Okay, I'm going to come in. So, if you're not decent, tell me now."

The door cracks open and saunters like that for a moment before he opens it further and takes a step in. His eyes scan the room until they land upon me at the window. I stare at him, silently, unwilling to move an inch.

His face says a lot. Apology is written all over it. I expect him to hesitate at the threshold until one of us can find something to say, but he surprises me and walks over to where I am. And even more so when he takes a seat on the opposite side of the nook, filling in the rest of the space in this small area. Our knees are touching.

We don't say a word. Not even when I remove my gaze from the window and regard him. The longer the silence lasts, the easier it is to sit in his company. The chill from the window stunningly cold, and because of that, I grab a side of the quilt and offer it to him.

He smiles softly, amused by the gesture but still too uncomfortable to enjoy it. He takes some of it and nods his thanks. I'm not sure how long we stay that way. I only realize the time passed when my back begins to hurt from sitting upright like this.

I look from the window to him, feeling his eyes on me.

"What?" I ask. I sound unusually hostile, disliking how quickly I went from liking his gaze to distrusting it. He's known me one day and yet, his returning expression shows me that in that small amount of time he's discovered how scarcely I get upset, truly upset.

"I have really bad people skills...if you hadn't noticed," he jokes.

"I did."

He tilts his head back onto the wall. "I wasn't always like this. I used to be charming. I used to be social. Somewhere along the way I turned into a huge dick."

"No, I overstepped—"

"No, you didn't," he cuts me off, refusing to let me finish. I stare at him, watching his eyes flicker with uncertainty as he tries to decipher his next words. "You didn't. What I said in there, insinuating that you did anything wrong was me lashing out...lashing out because I'm in unfamiliar territory here, for the first time in a very, very long time. And I don't like the feeling."

He swallows. "I'm mortified, and very, very sorry."

We're close and intimate, and it's probably the reason he finds it so hard to hold my gaze. I regard him for a while, enough to make him tense up before I speak.

"I meant what I said. I'm not going to write about them."

"Why?"

"Because you're right. I'm used to people wanting to give me their story. And because yours was so desired by my magazine, I took liberties I normally wouldn't have. Like showing up here a few days before Christmas. Sometimes, I'm a little too forthcoming, and I'm sorry about that."

"I like that about you."

I give him a disbelieving look, and he has enough grace to look abashed.

"Please forget what I said. I shouldn't have accused you."

"It's kind of hard to forget something like that, Aidan."

The house rings at the chime of noon, the clock echoing through the manor. We keep still and our silence lasts the amount of dings. He's observing me intensely, eyes sweeping over my features in a very un-platonic way. I don't think he realizes he's doing it.

"You feel it, right?" he asks, uncomfortably. "I mean, it's not just me?"

It takes guts to say it outright like that. I hadn't expected he'd do it, not after what just happened. Didn't think he'd have the nerve. It's clear as day that 'it' is referring to this magnetic string pulling us together when we should be pulling apart. We are the worst possible people for one another, and in every way, to act on our attraction would be completely unethical.

Hughes is a dark, tormented man with a soul far more experienced than my own. I'm a woman who has spent a good majority of my life running away from these types of moments. Normally, I wouldn't want them, and could easily find a way to escape the circumstance without scathe.

But Aidan Hughes cannot smile. Not really, and that bothers me way more than it should.

"I'm trying to ignore it," I finally reply, ages later. He nods immediately, but his lips frown down in contrast. All I see is war in him.

"We met yesterday, and we fought half that time," he says, with wonder. "It's unnerving."

"What is?"

The natural light, the shadows of falling snow, dance along his face, shaping the sharp angles beautifully. His eyes are a light gray color today, playing off of the cream knitted material of his sweater. It's easy to fall into them, and get lost. He inhales, like he needs the time to breathe to figure out how he's going to speak further. "You asked me if your beauty was why I wanted you...back in the kitchen?"

Ah, easier times. I manage a nod, knowing full well I'm blushing in remembrance. "Yes."

"If it were your beauty, I'd be able to walk away," he says. "I'd be able to function."

Christ.

I'm in danger here. My heart is wild.

"The beat in my chest is slow, and deprived, running on fumes. I've seen things no person alive should ever have to see. I've learned what it is to be alone, truly alone. I've spent years perfecting the ability to forget about desires, and needs, and positivity." He swallows, needing to look away from me to say more. He shakes his head. "The moment I saw you, my heart raced for the first time since my world ended, and that is fucking terrifying, Josephine."

I can hardly breathe. The small corner we're secluded into has become suffocating, swarming with the emotions leaping off of us. Apology and desire...desperation.

Aidan Hughes is either a master manipulator, or he's telling me this because he cannot stop himself. He's knocked me out, and whether it's the pain etched across his features, or the way his voice trembles when he confesses these beautiful things to me, or the fact that he doesn't even know how beautiful they are, I'm mesmerized.

"And when you showed up here, I liked fighting with you. And when you opened that door and the snow had trapped us in here, in that moment, I didn't give a shit that you were a journalist. I could only think of how glad I was that you were going to be here."

This would be the time I'd realize that what Aidan Hughes is looking for is not something I'm able to give. This would be the time I'd normally stand up and walk away. Because what he's saying isn't normal. What is happening here isn't normal.

There's more. There's so much more bouncing between us, and all around.

I'm dizzy, and lost. My footing isn't right, and I'm not even on my feet.

"I should stop talking now," he says, with an embarrassed chuckle, looking to the window. He's smiling, but it's the saddest smile I've ever seen. It's so sad that I lift my hand and reach across the quilt, finding his. My fingers merely nudge his, hesitating before I gather up enough courage to lace and capture them.

Our eyes meet. His are bare, blown wide open, all of his emotions in full viewing effect. Mine, I'm sure, are shielded, my fear making it hard to show him anything. He can't see how fast my pulse is beating. He can't hear the beating my mind is taking, my conflicting conscious warning me of the dangers. He can't possibly know how difficult wanting me can be, because the last thing I want is to cause this man more pain.

But he's staring at me, and it doesn't matter how long I've known him. Or how little we know about each other. This isn't going to go away. I'm like a moth to a flame. Aidan could burn the shit out of me, really hurt. And yet, I'm willing to take the chance.

His grip tightens just as I brace myself to move, proving that both of our minds are prepared.

We're both on the same page.

He pulls me to him, shifting one of his legs to fit me between them. My breath catches the moment I'm in his face, nearly pressed to his nose. We're both not breathing...but our eyes are moving over each other's faces.

I'm not the only one thinking.

Hughes has a lot in that body, a lot I don't know. A lot I may never know.

His trust issues haven't faded away, and neither has my sense of better judgment.

I've just chosen to ignore it.

He has a life he's lived. A wife and a child he loved. He's angry and sad and scared.

I'm not the right person he should seek comfort from. And yet, I can't back away.

Without taking my eyes off his, I lift my hand, slowly, frightened and excited at the same time. And my fingers touch his face. The way he sucks in breath strikes me in the chest, his hand pressing to the small of my back, too unsure to move anywhere else.

The tips of my fingers graze the stubble covering his jaw, and trace the sweet line of his cheekbone, traveling down onto his mouth. His lips are as I imagined they'd feel. Soft, and full. His breath is warm against my skin, coming out of him with difficulty.

We're strikingly intimate, intimate enough to cause worry.

I find his eyes, noticing his own are on my mouth, swarmed with motive. I grab onto his face, clasping onto cheek and lower my head slowly. Our lips don't immediately meet. Instead, they press right beside the target, and my heart jumps at the proximity.

He's frozen stiff, but his fingers indent harder into my back, just as I hover over his mouth, preparing to erase the space between us. I move carefully and gently, and just settle my lips onto his, taking a leap of faith.

I expect him to panic. I expect him to push me away and jump out of the nook...to distance himself from me entirely.

Instead, he reacts, sucking in a massive inhale of breath while he takes hold of my face with one of his hands and crushes his mouth into mine, obliterating restraint.