30. 30
Iforce Miles into a few selfies of the two of us in his studio and then leave the poor man alone. I retire back to his room, spread out on the couch, post a pic with a simple hashtag #hangingwithmyhubby, and then I find myself in a rabbit hole down Miles’ Instagram page.
He has three hundred followers, less than a hundred posts—all of his work—and he’s following a hundred and one people. I would bet money that each and every single one is a blood relative.
He is completely underutilizing his social media.
So… I tag him in my post and share half a dozen of his posts to my stories. Then I take a picture of myself holding the songbirds’ painting, posting that this is my favorite Miles Bailey creation of all time. By the time I’m ready to exit the rabbit hole, he’s more than doubled his following.
Mental high five for me!
Before I can get too excited, I remember that Coco will be picking me up for who-knows-what tonight. I should probably change my clothes and brush my hair and look semi-presentable for this outing with my… sister-in-law.
I set my phone down, grab my bathroom bag, and shuffle off to that water closet Miles refers to as a bathroom.
I’ve only been in here for ten minutes when I hear Miles talking to someone. I twist my wrist and check my watch—I still have twenty minutes. Coco is early.
I finish up my lip gloss, adjust my Milano silk blouse, and head out for the girls’ night I never asked for.
“Um, an artist,” Miles says to no one. “And a teacher, I guess. Though not a schoolteacher.”
Wait. Not to no one. He’s holding out his phone, looking at the screen. Nope, wrong again. He’s holding my phone. Looking at my screen. He’s talking to someone on my phone.
I speed walk to his far left side and see Claire Jones staring back at him, studying him and judging him for all he’s worth.
Miles glances at me, but thankfully Mom doesn’t see me. I didn’t make it into the camera lens.
I stand where only Miles can see me, and I mouth, “My mother?” I slap a silent hand to my forehead. He’s talking to the one person I avoid at every cost.
His eyes glance past the phone to me.
I throw up my arms and mouth, “What are you doing?” It’s a silent fit, an Oscar-worthy performance.
He gives a small shrug just as Mom says, “That can’t pay much. Even successful artists struggle for a time, and I have never heard of you.”
“Well, no ma’am, it doesn’t pay much, but it pays enough.”
“Enough for what?”
We’ve only just begun with her put-downs, but I can’t. I can’t—I can’t. I leap to Miles’ side and wrap one arm around his waist. “Enough, Mother. You don’t need any more explanation. Miles’ finances are none of your business.”
Mom’s short golden hair wisps back and her red lips—thanks to L’Oreal’s Rose Garden— smile sardonically back at me. “But it seems they are yours.” Her tattooed brows rise to the tippity-top of her head. She sighs—more dramatic than necessary. “Well, look who it is. Alive and well. My prodigal daughter hasn’t come home, but she can show her face on a phone call. She can say hello to her mother. It’s good to know that not all of my teachings were lost on you.”
Say hello? More like asking the woman to back off.
“Not all. But most,” I say, and Miles stiffens next to me.
I don’t mean to make him uncomfortable with my Mother issues.
I stopped apologizing for who I was years ago. I stopped believing her judgments years ago. Still, Miles is clearly uneasy beside me. It’s not my fault. I never planned to introduce the two of them. But then, I didn’t answer the phone.
“So, you are married, Delaney Sage?”
I clear my throat and unapologetically answer, “I am.”
“You don’t look very married.”
I flap my arms at my side, but it’s lost on her. I’m not even sure she can see it. “What does married look like, Mother? Would you like me to put on an apron and make Sunday dinner? Or maybe I should make out with my husband here and now to prove to you we’re married?”
Miles turns his head and stares at me.
“Are you a child?” Mom says, her eyes slits. “What would that prove? You’ve kissed plenty of boys, Delaney. And we both know you can’t cook.” She huffs. “I want to see the certificate.”
“Oh,” Miles pipes up. “We have that—”
“We do, but she doesn’t need to see it. We don’t have to prove anything to her.” I tighten my grip around Miles’ waist, holding him next to me.
“Tell me you were at least smart enough to get a prenup.”
We were—but that’s another piece of information she doesn’t get to have.
“Knock, knock,” calls a voice from the studio. Coco steps into Miles’ home, two more women behind her.
Does no one actually knock in this family? I mean, saying “knock, knock” isn’t knocking; they know that, right?
“Kiss your husband goodbye, Lane Jonas, it’s time to party,” Annie says, making her way into the loft with a dorky dance that no one should be doing.
“Who’s that? Who’s there?” Mom says as if we’re under attack.
And maybe we are.
Attack of the self-appointed bridesmaids.
“Oh, phone call,” Coco whispers, pointing toward the phone Miles holds, then snatching onto Annie’s wrist and hushing her up.
“Sorry,” Annie says, just above a whisper.
”No,” I say, my nerves on edge and ready to end this conversation. ”You”re right, Annie! It”s time to go. Kiss me goodbye, Miles.” I look away from my mother, and up to Miles, ready to put on a show.
“Right.” As if he were a high school actor playing a really bad version of Romeo, Miles squares his shoulders and turns to face me.
Mom is still watching. His sisters are staring. We are, in fact, the latest showing at the movie theater. And I am all hyped up.
Typical Miles leans in—and I know where that kiss is going. My forehead is officially a snogging station.
Bouncing up on my tiptoes, I surprise him by tipping my head back and letting his lips land right on mine. I swing my arms around his neck and hold him there for two seconds and then three.
Our harsh beginning melts away as my lips take over and explore his. My mind forgetting everyone around us as I focus in on Miles, and only Miles.
His empty hand cups the back of my head, cradling me there, holding me close, while his mouth responds to mine, kissing me back with urgency. His right arm is a frozen structure, still holding out my viewing mother.
But I can’t worry about her. Not with Miles so very close.
His soft lips part with my tease, like butter—smooth and sweet. I can’t get enough. Miles Bailey—accidentally making me flame with touches and words—can kiss. He could kiss a girl into oblivion.
Seconds later, he breaks free, clearing his throat and peering down into my eyes.Saying so much—without saying a word.
“Delaney.” My mother groans out my name as if I were a child causing a scene at one of her garden parties.
In the corner, some member of Miles’ family sighs sweetly. I’m not sure who.
Despite the audience we have—one appalled, the other awed—I take in the sparks tingling over my skin and lighting up every corner of my body. I embrace them, listen to them, and hold onto them. This feeling is new and beautiful and I don’t want to forget it.
Just a kiss, I’d told him before. It’s not a big deal, just a kiss.
I might have been wrong about that.