Page 62 of The Producer: Aaron

“It’s not a problem if you want to invite people here, you know?”

“It’s not that I don’t want to, but I’ve never had friends here in Los Angeles apart from Serena. I don’t have anyone who would want to come on my birthday,” I admit.

He holds me to himself and gently kisses my hair. “I’m sorry.”.

“Don’t be sorry. It doesn’t bother me.”

“So, where are we going out for breakfast?” he asks.

“I want pancakes.”

Aaron chuckles and squeezes me tight before getting out of bed and helping me up. I never thought I would like a completely naked man so much, but I find myself admiring his perfect body every chance I get. It still seems impossible that he is attracted to someone like me.

“Are you done checking me out? I’m not your breakfast. Get up, so we can go celebrate properly,” he teases, dragging me out of bed.

“Do I really have to? I like the view.” I lean against him and kiss him on the shoulder.

“It’s not bad for me either, but I also appreciate looking at you dressed, smiling, and talking to me about the things you like.”

No one has ever told me such a thing, and my heart squirms in my chest. To think that a man like him can feel a genuineinterest in a woman who is thirteen years younger is still something that in my head looks more like a fairy tale than the reality I am living. Yet he listens to me when I speak and remembers even the smallest details of our conversations.

I haven’t often dealt with such attentive people, especially in Los Angeles. During the parties I attended, everyone was ready to make small talk, but no one ever got too deep into a conversation that could somehow put them in an uncomfortable position. The weight of words among these hills almost crushes you.

Getting dressed and resisting the temptation to tear our clothes off is a struggle, but in the end, we get into the car and enter the Saturday morning Los Angeles traffic. Aaron is driving, wearing a pair of light Chinos, a polo shirt, sneakers, sunglasses, and hair a bit messy.

“Why are you staring at me?” he asks as he reaches out a hand and intertwines our fingers.

“I like you when you’re not dressed in elegant suits. You have a more relaxed face, and you look almost younger.”

He glances at me before looking back at the road, smiling. “Are you saying I’m an old man?”

I bring his hand to my lips and kiss the back.

“No, I’m saying you look relaxed.”

He nods and seems to think about it for a few seconds before answering. It is his nature to weigh the words, to pause to think if something is worth saying or if it is better to keep quiet. I have always appreciated his way of never speaking inappropriately, of using words in the right measure.

“Isn’t this age difference a problem for you?” From his tone, he almost seems to need to be reassured.

I know how much he’s fought against himself for what he feels for me.

“Why should it be? You are sexy to die for, have abs to drool over, are fantastic in bed, listen to what I say, and have much more interesting topics than the latest game just released. I’d be crazy to have issues with the age difference.”

He bursts out laughing, amused. “You sure know how to pump a man’s ego.”

“If you’re worried about what people say, you don’t have to be. I’ve never felt compelled to have sex with you because you are my boss or for fear of losing my job. I know people often don’t understand, but I grew up among adults and always found their conversations much more inspiring than those of kids my age.”

“I don’t care about people’s gossip, but I want to be more than certain that they don’t have a foundation.”

“You can sleep soundly.” I smile and shake his hand as he parks in front of a small Beverly Hills bakery that, from the outside, almost goes unnoticed.

I have the impression this is one of those celebrity places that tourists cannot find because you’d only know about it if you are famous and through word of mouth. When we enter, we see some familiar faces that are having breakfast and don’t go beyond the initial glance. No one stares at us or starts whispering with the person who sits next to them pointing, something that often happens when I visit Rodeo Drive, where tourists walk with wide eyes and sweat dripping on their foreheads.

Aaron puts his hand on my back and leads me to one of the tables near the wall with a bench covered with fluffy pastel-colored pillows. He sits next to me, instead of sitting in the chair on the other side of the table, and wraps his arm around myshoulders, dragging me for a hug and gently kissing my hair. I like how it is not a problem for him to prove himself tender in public.

“How do you know this place? Do you always bring your conquests here?” I ask, looking up from the menu and watching his expression get slightly darker.

“Actually, no. A person I know called me one day and told me that my mother was in here, drunk, making a scene with the waitresses. I ran here to pick her up, and since I couldn’t convince her to leave without loading her on my shoulders and forcing her into the car, I stopped with her for breakfast until she calmed down. I discovered that here you can eat delicious pastry.” He smiles at me, but I notice a veil of sadness in his eyes.

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