Chapter 27
TWENTY-SEVEN
Morning rays filter through Miles’s bedroom window.
His hair is more blond than brown with the sun’s highlights. It falls onto his face, sleep lines creasing his cheek. The sheets smell like him, pine mixed with mint and clean laundry.
Last night was… a lot.
The accident. His explanation and apology. The way he looked at me, as if I were halfway out the door and not right in front of him.
The sex. God, the sex.
I’m not sure what truths today will bring with it.
We agreed to something we both know is impossible. He has to know that we can’t stop what’s building between us. It’d be impossible.
Some things can’t be halted once they’re in motion. I think that’s his point—he can’t stop his feelings, so he’s accepting the inevitable goodbye. Bracing for the crash and burn before it happens.
Just until you leave.
I’m not sure I can buy into that yet, but if it helps him feel like he’s got some kind of control, so be it.
I close my eyes.
126 days.
I have four months to memorize him. His arm slung across my waist. His breath warm against my shoulder. The way his body fits against mine.
Four months, and then I leave.
I didn’t promise to stay. Couldn’t promise that, even if he’d asked.
I want to believe we could make long distance work, but he’s already made up his mind on it. Because of his past. It’s obvious he’s blaming himself, but I don’t fully understand why.
He’s got ghosts haunting him.
Maybe the time I have left here is enough to chase them away.
Maybe this’ll run its course, and by then, neither of us will want to—
No. I can’t imagine that happening. At least, not from my side.
I should pull away, start protecting myself now, and build walls so June doesn’t destroy me.
Because that’s exactly what it’s going to do.
I said I wanted the kind of love that ruins you. Yeah, I’m second-guessing that one—you know what? No, I’m not.
I glance at Miles. Little puffs of air brush against my skin as his arm tightens around my waist, and I know I won’t protect myself. Not against him.
I wouldn’t change a single second.
Even knowing how this ends, I can’t bring myself to let him go.
I’m not exactly known for giving up. My mama always said when I set my mind to something, watch out. Hopefully, she’s right.
Miles stirs with a groan, blinking against the light now shining in his eyes. They look honey brown when he peers up at me.
“Morning,” he mumbles, then kisses my shoulder. “You’ve been up?”
“Just for a bit.” I run my hand through his hair, which doesn’t do much to tame the rogue curls.
He braces himself on one elbow, looking down at me. “How’re you feeling today?”
My face must give away my confusion. He adds, “Nothing hurts? From the accident… Your neck okay?” His fingers skim the side of my throat, and I shiver.
I’m not sure what it says that yesterday’s accident was the least memorable part of the day. I’ve completely forgotten the paramedic’s advice to take inventory of how I was feeling today, that sometimes pain doesn’t hit until the adrenaline wears off. But Miles remembered.
Of course he did.
And it sends a different kind of adrenaline through me, giddy with something softer.
I roll my head gently, stretch my arms, arch my back, and don’t feel a twinge of pain. “Nope. Good as new.”
“Okay.” He traces my collarbone. “Can I take you somewhere today?”
“Trying to steal all my days off?” I grin.
“As many as I can get.”
My bottom lip catches between my teeth. I let it go. “What were you thinking?”
“It’s a surprise.” He rolls onto his back and stretches, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Breakfast first,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in cotton leggings and a flannel, watching him crack eggs into a bowl. He moves around the kitchen with easy confidence, whisking eggs, heating the pan, and chopping vegetables.
It’s nice that at least one of us knows how to cook. He’s spoiled me by cooking all our meals. When he doesn’t have time, he orders pre-prepared food from his nutritionist for us both.
The coffee pot stops its gurgling, and he grabs two mugs from the cabinet. The one I moved weeks ago is still there, still crooked compared to the others, all lined up in a neat row.
I wonder how crazy it’s driving him, and whether he’s leaving it that way because of me. The thought makes my lips tip up.
He wordlessly makes my coffee just the way I like it and hands it over.
When neither of us looks away, I rise onto my toes and kiss him quickly, but he deepens it, tugging me closer with a hand at the nape of my neck.
Only when the butter sizzles in the pan does he ease back and turn to pour the eggs in.
“Are you gonna tell me what we’re doing now?” I hop up onto the counter beside him.
“Nope.” He tips the pan.
“Oh, c’mon. Are we… going somewhere to eat?”
“Maybe after, but that’s not what I have in mind.”
I swing my legs. “Museum? Concert?”
He shakes his head.
“Skating again?”
“Nope.” He darts a look at me. “You really don’t like surprises, do you?”
It’s not that I don’t like surprises. I just don’t know what to do with them.
Outside of my parents, I can’t remember anyone planning one for me.
And while there are plenty of happy memories, there are others, too.
Like finding out I’d have to wear my too-small shoes a little longer, until my mom could scrounge together enough money for a new pair, or that the dinner menu for the foreseeable future was SpaghettiOs because they were on sale.
Though I’m sure whatever Miles has planned will be a good surprise. “I’m not sure yet,” I tell him.
He gives me one of his half-smiles, then turns back to the pan, flipping the omelet in that way chefs do.
“At least tell me what I should wear.”
His gaze moves down my body, and then back up. “What you’re wearing is good.”
I look down at my leggings and flannel shirt. “These are my pajamas.”
He hitches a shoulder. “I like them.”
Three simple words should not make my whole body hot.
He checks the other side of the omelet, then slides it onto a plate, dividing it before carrying the two plates to the living room.
I follow. “I thought you didn’t like sitting out here to eat.”
On mornings when I only have time for coffee before rushing off to Boone’s, he’s always sitting at the island with a placemat and a triangle-folded napkin set to the right of his plate.
“But you do, don’t you?” He waits for me to get comfy, then hands me my plate. “You’re always eating there, with your knees folded up and your plate balanced on them. You look like a little cricket.”
I snort. “I think you mean a praying mantis.” I rub my hands together the way the insect does, making him chuckle.
“Whatever it is, it’s cute.”
“Why’re you watching me eat, anyway?” I cut into the eggs with my fork.
“Same reason you notice.” He smirks, then pops a bite into his mouth. “I like looking at you.”
I focus on my plate, trying to hide the heat creeping up my neck. “This is good.”
He hums in response. When he finishes eating, and I’m still working on mine, he throws an arm over the back of the couch and angles toward me.
I smile widely at him, and he returns it.
“Quit watching me eat,” I say, but I’m still grinning.
His gaze flicks away, but it drifts back to me.
I finish the last bite and set my plate on the coffee table, but the fork slides off, clattering to the floor between his feet.
“I got it,” we say at the same time.
But I’m already moving, my knees on the couch cushion, one hand braced on his thigh for balance as I lean over him to grab it.
Miles goes completely still.
I close my fingers around the fork. When I pull back, I find him staring at me, his jaw tight, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
I freeze as heat floods my cheeks.
He shifts slightly, adjusting himself, and that only makes it worse. Better. Worse?
I sit back on my heels but don’t move away, my fork still clutched in my hand like an idiot. I toss it onto the plate, and it clangs loudly. Even that doesn’t break the tension between us.
We’ve had sex, spent the whole night together, and made an agreement about the next four months. So why does this feel like a first?
Maybe because it is. The first morning after. The first breakfast. The first time we’re just… existing together without urgency or denial.
But I want more of it.
“Sorry,” I say, but move closer.
“Don’t be.” His gaze drops to my mouth, to my eyes, then back down again.
My hand slides up his thigh.
He sucks in a breath.
I lean in—
“Oh. Oh my,” a voice that isn’t mine or Miles’s exclaims.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
Tara stands in the kitchen doorway, grocery bags in her arms, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.
My face is on fire.
“Tara.” Miles runs a hand through his hair and looks everywhere except at his cousin.
“I texted to say I was stopping by.” She sets the bags down carefully on the island.
“I didn’t see it.” He clears his throat.
A grin spreads across her face. “Yeah, I can see why.”
“How was your weekend?” Miles tries.
“Oh no, you don’t,” she chides, but there’s no heat behind it.
We both stand from the couch. I don’t miss Miles not-so-subtly tucking himself into the waistband of his gray sweats.
Tara tips her head to the side, one hip cocked and a foot tapping an impatient beat as she waits for us to explain. “So, you two are a thing now?”
Miles shrugs, and we trade small smiles before he turns back to Tara. “Something like that.”
“Kids these days. Why do you all have a fear of commitment?”
“It’s not that.” Miles gives her a look I interpret as could you butt out.
“I knew it,” Tara mutters to herself, turning to unpack the groceries. She pauses, milk carton halfway to the fridge, and turns to me. “He didn’t pressure you, did he?”
“Oh, God, no!” I practically shout.
“Jesus Christ, Tara,” Miles mutters.
“Don’t ‘Tara’ me.” She pulls out a carton of eggs and points it at him.