Chapter 30
THIRTY
Boone’s coffee mug is in its usual spot when I walk into the studio. Same chipped ceramic, same faint smell of burnt espresso.
He takes a sip, choosing caffeine over a greeting. That’s nothing new.
“Good morning to you, too,” I singsong.
He grumbles something under his breath.
“You add Bailey’s to that?” I tip my head toward his mug.
“Do I need to?”
The last time he asked that was the same day he left another question echoing in my head: Is that all you’ve got?
The same day I broke down in Miles’s lap.
“Nope!” I pull my guitar from its case. “I’ve got a new song for you.”
My stomach flips. This one came to me at three in the morning when I couldn’t sleep. I haven’t slept much since Miles left for 4 Nations. Even the comfort of his bed and his lingering scent wore off after a couple of days.
I miss him something fierce. The house feels empty without him. Before, when he was away, I noticed, but now his absence fills every room.
Ten days. It’s the longest we’ve been apart since we agreed to “just until I leave.”
While he’s been gone, I’ve poured everything I have into the studio, filled half the notepad he gave me for Christmas, and made steady progress on the record. Boone deemed two of the songs “pretty good,” which, coming from him, might as well be a standing ovation. But I’m still chasing more.
This might be the one.
“Well, let’s hear it.” He settles into his chair with a grunt.
I close my eyes and start.
It’s about moments that stack up until they turn into something you can’t ignore. About brown eyes and Gatorade at a snowy gas station. About a man who folds his socks in perfect pairs and makes coffee exactly the way I like it.
I didn’t write socks into the song, obviously. But he’s the thread woven throughout.
When the last chord fades, I open my eyes and brace for whatever’s about to come out of Boone’s mouth. He didn’t cut me off halfway through, which has got to be a good sign.
He takes a sip of his coffee. Sets it down.
I hold my breath as the silence stretches.
Then, he smiles.
Actually smiles.
In three months of working with this man, I’ve never seen him smile. Not once. And now—
“Took you long enough,” he says.
My jaw drops. Heat rises up my neck, relief and disbelief and pure joy all tangled together. “You’re serious?”
I want to laugh. Or cry. Or maybe both.
“That’s it. That’s your breakout single.”
A giggle bursts out of me. “You really think so?”
I reach for my phone without thinking, then I set it back down. Miles will be home tonight. I want to see his face when I tell him. He’s going to be more excited than I am. Then he’ll look at me with that proud, I-told-you-so smile that makes me go all gooey inside.
“When do I bullshit about music?” Boone waves a hand at me. “Now, play it again.”
I do. Twice more. Each time, Boone takes notes, suggests tweaks, and nods when I nail them.
“Let’s lay down a rough.” He’s already moving toward the board.
My voice turns raspy, and my fingertips go numb from my guitar strings as the afternoon goes on, but my energy stays up.
By the time we wrap, it’s dark out. I unlock Miles’s Audi—the one he’s been letting me borrow since the accident—and stand there. My pulse is still sprinting, the day humming through me. Like I could do anything. Have everything I want.
I smile up at the clear, star-crowded sky.
When my phone buzzes in my hand, only one person comes to mind.
Miles:
When are you leaving the studio?
Me:
About to head out now. Why?
Just got back, was gonna order dinner. What do you want?
You
Miles loved “You”
Miles:
Food, Starling.
Me:
Pizza!
I had the best day. I can’t wait to tell you about it
Can’t wait. Drive safe
I hop into the car and start the engine. As warmth pumps through the vents, I call Mia.
“HE LOVED IT!” I scream the second she picks up.
“Summer,” she says, deadpan. “My eardrums.”
“He said it’s my breakout single. He actually said that!”
“The one you’ve been working on… The one that’s definitely not about Miles,” she teases, like she has every time I’ve mentioned this song.
“The very one.” I smile, even though she can’t see it.
“So, how’re you celebrating? Why aren’t you having your loving reunion?”
“Driving home now. Miles is ordering us dinner.”
A beat of silence.
“Oh my God.” She laughs, and it’s a little evil and a lot manic. “You didn’t deny it.”
“Okay, gotta go. Bye!” I rush out, still grinning as I hang up.
I’m practically vibrating the whole drive home. The second I pull into the driveway and shift into park, I’m already halfway out of the car.
“Honey, I’m home!” I call as I fling the door open.
Gracie’s collar jingles from somewhere, but Miles beats her to me. His arms wrap tight around my waist, and my feet leave the ground.
“Fuck,” he murmurs against my neck. “I missed the way you smell.”
I laugh, and he mumbles something that sounds like “Missed that, too.”
I run my fingers through his hair. It’s softer than I remember, maybe slightly longer.
“I can’t imagine I smell that great after a full day in the studio.”
“You do.” He sets me down but doesn’t let me go. “You always do.”
I tilt my head back to look at him. “What do I smell like?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Honey and citrus.”
I may be developing an arrhythmia.
I go up on my toes to kiss him. The high I’m riding intensifies when our lips meet. We kiss slow and unhurried, making up for every hour apart.
“I missed you,” I whisper against his mouth.
“Me too, Starling.”
He takes my hand and leads me into the kitchen. The smell of garlic and tomatoes drifts from the oven.
“Did you make the pizza?” At this point, I wouldn’t even be surprised. He seems to be good at pretty much everything.
“No.” He pulls a pizza box out of the oven and sets it on the island. “Just keeping it warm.”
I peek inside. “Is this Chicago-style?”
“Yep.”
“I’ve been wanting to try this.”
“I know. You’ve only mentioned it twenty times.” He smiles shyly, then holds out a bottle of wine. “Red?”
I’ve never done this with anyone. The casual domesticity. Pizza and wine and talking about our days, like we’ve been doing this for years.
All the small, boring, beautiful details of just existing together.
“Looks fancy.”
He chuckles. “It’s good.”
“Then let’s do it.”
We carry everything to the living room without discussion. It’s become our spot—sitting on the floor with our backs against the couch, plates on the coffee table, knees bumping against one another.
The wine is good. Or maybe I just think it’s good because I’m happy and Miles is home.
“Tell me about your day.” He takes a sip of wine. “New song?”
“Yep.” I launch into the play-by-play, and he listens. That warm half-smile on his face the entire time I ramble, taking bites of pizza between sentences.
Gracie wanders over and tries to swat at the slice on Miles’s plate. He gently redirects her, and I swear she scowls.
“This may be the first day I’m not tempted to punch that guy in the nose,” he says when I tell him how confident Boone was about the song.
“No nose punching needed.” I giggle, pleasantly fuzzy from the alcohol, and he shrugs.
“When do I get to hear it?”
I take another sip of wine. “Probably never.”
“Hey.” He reaches over and tickles my side. I squeal and attempt to twist away, but he catches me, fingers firm on my waist. “If it’s your big hit, you can’t stop me from listening on the radio.”
“I can try.”
But I won’t be able to, will I? I won’t even be here.
I drink more wine to drown out the thought.
He studies me, then asks, “What’s it about?”
“I’ll never tell,” I singsong.
I’ve never written a song about someone before. I don’t know how he’d react to knowing he’s in every line. I’d spent years searching for my muse, and it turns out I just needed… Miles.
Okay, I won’t give him all the credit. I’m sure some of it is due to Boone.
But most of all, it’s due to me. For not giving up.
For pushing through when self-doubt tried to take me out.
But Miles’s unwavering support—even when his logic wasn’t exactly sound—has been there since he ran into me at Citgo, steadying me.
“C’mon, give me something.” He thumps his head back against the couch cushion.
I shift to face him and end up in his lap, knees straddling either side of his hips. His hands settle on my waist, and I loop my arms around his neck. “It’s about feelings I’m not ready to name yet.”
I might have the words, but they feel too fragile to share. Like I need to sit with them, roll them across my tongue, let them grow until they’re so big they can’t be contained inside me.
His gaze flicks across my face, as if he can read what I’m not saying. I’m not sure what he finds, but whatever it is makes him kiss me. Slow at first. Then deeper, urgent. I kiss him back harder. His hands slip under my shirt, warm against my skin. I rock against him, and he groans.
“Summer.” He tugs at my shirt, and I nod.
As soon as it’s over my head, my lips find his again, but he pulls back. His gaze drops to my chest.
“Pink,” is all he says.
“You’re a real lingerie guy, huh?”
He shakes his head, then kisses the swell of each breast. “Just on you. Every set is bright and sexy, and so damn you.”
I pull at his shirt until it’s off. My hands run over his arms, down his chest. He sucks in a breath when my fingers ghost over his lower stomach.
His hips jerk.
“Someone’s impatient,” I tease.
“Christ, sorry.” He kisses my jaw, then my ear. “I’m a little wound up.”
“Yeah?”
I feel his nod against my throat.
“Do you have condoms down here, or…?”
“In my wallet.” He stands with me in his arms, sets me on the couch, and calls over his shoulder, “Pants off by the time I get back, Starling.”
I listen, wriggling out of my jeans. By the time he rounds the couch, I’m in nothing but my panties and bra.
He drops to his knees, and the sight alone makes me clench.
I suck in a breath as his hands run up my calves. He reaches behind my knees, lifting and spreading my legs before settling between them. He kisses the crease where my thigh meets my hip, tongue flicking out.
“Fuck,” he mumbles against my skin.
His tongue traces slow circles that make my thighs tremble. I whimper and run my hands through his hair.
“Shh.” His breath is warm. “Let me.”
He hooks his fingers under my thong and drags it down. I lift to help, and then I’m completely bare to him.
He looks up, eyes dark, and the intensity in his gaze makes wetness flood my center. Then his mouth is on me, and I lose all coherent thought.
He takes his time, dragging it out until I’m shaking. Again and again, as if he’s got nothing else to do but make me come apart.
He groans against me, the vibration rumbling through me.
“Oh God—”
His tongue does something that makes my back arch off the couch. My thighs try to close, but his hands hold them open.
“Miles, I can’t—I’m gonna—”
He slips two fingers inside me and curls them. “I want to feel you strangle my fingers before you come on my cock.”
Holy—
The orgasm crashes through me, wave after wave, and he still doesn’t stop. His mouth comes back to me, and he holds me until I’m shaking and pushing at his shoulders because it’s all too much.
When he finally eases back, his mouth is wet, and his hair is sticking up at weird angles. He looks so lust-drunk that I can’t help the breathless laugh that breaks free.
He crawls up my body, kissing my stomach, between my breasts, my collarbone. When he reaches my lips, I taste myself on his tongue.
I reach between us, finding him hard and straining against his jeans.
“Take me out,” he rasps.
I fumble, trying to rid him of his pants while we kiss messily.
He pulls back enough for me to shove his jeans and boxers over his hips. I give him a slow, firm stroke, my thumb catching the precum leaking from his tip.
A breath hisses through his teeth.
He reaches for his wallet on the coffee table, pulls out a condom, and hands it to me. He’s hard and hot, and when I stroke him again, his hips jerk.
“Fuck, Summer—” His head falls back.
I lean in and press a kiss to his neck as I roll the condom down him.
He puts me where he wants me, my butt at the edge of the couch. I lean back into the cushions, and he follows me down, positioning himself between my thighs. He pushes my legs up until my knees meet my chest, opening me wide for him. The raw exposure of the position makes my pulse jump.
“Look at me,” he rasps.
I do.
His eyes are half-lidded, but his pupils are blown wide. I could get addicted to the way he’s looking at me right now. He pushes in slowly, his focus locked on me the entire time.
I gasp at the stretch, the fullness, the way he fills me.
“Okay?” he asks, voice strained.
“Yes. God, yes.”
He starts to move. Long, deep thrusts that make my eyes want to roll back. But he won’t let me look away. “Stay with me, honey.”
The words land differently than he means them, like he’s asking for more than my attention. Or maybe that’s exactly how he means them.
I want to. God, I want to stay. Not just tonight. Or tomorrow. Or the day after.
But I can’t promise that.
So I give him what I can.
I hold his gaze as he moves inside me, as his breathing roughens, as his control slips away. He laces our fingers together and pins my hands above my head. “So fucking perfect.”
I wrap my legs around his waist, pulling him deeper, and he groans into my neck.
“Summer—” My name sounds like a curse and a blessing.
His rhythm falters. Gets more urgent. More desperate.
“I need—” He breaks off, jaw clenched.
He releases my hands, and my nails rake down his back. “Tell me.”
“You.”
The word sets off that quick drum in my chest.
I love you.
The thought comes unbidden, not for the first time tonight, and so goddamn true it steals my breath.
I love him.
My throat gets tight, and my eyes sting. Miles grounds me with a kiss, deep and claiming, and I return it like I can make him understand everything I’m not ready to say.
The pressure builds again, coiling tighter and tighter until I’m right on the edge.
“Miles, I’m—”
His hand slides between us, finding where we’re joined. “Come.”
I shatter. It rolls through me in waves, dragging him with me. He buries his face in my neck, and he pulses inside of me, his whole body shuddering.
His weight pins me to the couch, and I don’t want him to move. But eventually, he eases back. He brushes hair from my face before he pulls out carefully, then deals with the condom.
When he rejoins me on the couch, he gathers me into his chest.
Some amount of time later—how long? I have no idea—he asks, “Bed?”
When I nod, he stands, pulling me with him. But instead of letting go, he holds me.
“What?” I whisper.
He shakes his head. “Nothing. Just… glad to be home.”
Something in his voice makes me want to cry. Though I’m not sure if they’d be happy or sad tears.
“Me too,” I whisper.