Chapter 10
CHAPTER
TEN
MIRANDA
Isit cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on my thighs, typing away.
My morning has been nothing but emails, schedules, and coordinating the never-ending moving pieces of Anna’s career.
My job has a lot of perks—mainly that I get to work with my best friend—but it also means that unless we’re filming or at an in-person meeting, I can do almost everything in my pajamas.
The front door clicks open, and Miles enters, freshly showered, his hair still damp from the rink.
I look up from my screen. I’m wearing oversized sweatpants, zero makeup, and my hair is piled into a very questionable messy bun.
Still, the moment his eyes land on me, a little self-conscious flutter sparks in my chest. Living with someone—having them see you in all your versions—is a whole new adjustment.
“Hey,” I say. “How was practice?”
He drops his duffel on the tile and gives me a slow once-over. “Practice was great, thank you.” Then his brows pull together. “How are you, and… what is on your face?”
It takes me a second before I remember. I lift a hand and tap the bright purple under-eye patches clinging to my skin. “These? They’re eye patches.”
He laughs. “What the hell is an eye patch? And why are you wearing it?”
“It’s for puffiness, and skincare, wrinkles, and stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” He steps closer and leans down to inspect me, his face way too amused for my comfort. “And this purple goo is supposed to do… what again?”
“It helps with under-eye puffiness, fine lines, wrinkles, dark circles—”
He straightens, shaking his head. “You have none of those things, Miranda.”
“Well, maybe not now,” I say, “but this helps prevent future ones.”
“Really.” He crosses his arms, fully skeptical. “So that strip of… whatever that is… is your fountain of youth?”
“Yes,” I quip. “It’s called skincare.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. Skincare it is. Who am I to judge? I’ve just never seen those before.”
“Well,” I say, “now that you live with a woman, you’re going to see lots of things.”
He grins. “All right, fair enough. How’s your day going?”
“So far, so good. I’ve been working hard.”
“I see that.” His eyes dip over my outfit again.
“Hey, I’m allowed to work in my pajamas. It’s one of the perks of my job. I can sit here emailing people in my pj’s with my skincare on, and you are not allowed to judge.”
“I’m not judging.” He chuckles. “I’m just observing. I think it’s adorable.” His voice softens. “I think you are adorable.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I clear my throat and pretend to refocus on my laptop. “Whatever.”
“So,” he asks, that boyish smile tugging at his mouth, “are you hungry?”
“Oh my gosh, yes. I am so hungry.”
Just saying the words makes me realize I haven’t eaten a single thing all day. When I’m working, time slips away from me—I blink, and suddenly, it’s midafternoon, and my body is like, hey, remember food?
“Yeah, me too,” Miles says, dropping onto the other end of the couch. “I’m really craving Mexican.”
I gasp dramatically. “Oh my gosh—Mexican. Yes. Mexican sounds so good.”
He laughs at my enthusiasm. “Okay then, Mexican it is. I’ll put in a delivery order. What do you want?”
I immediately start listing off everything under the sun—enchiladas, chips and queso, carnitas tacos, and guacamole. The entire time, Miles just watches me with this amused, indulgent grin.
“What?” I ask defensively. “You’ve gotta order enough for leftovers.”
“Ah.” He nods.
“Mexican leftovers are the best.”
“They’re pretty damn good,” he agrees, pulling his phone out. He submits our ridiculous feast and then looks over. “Forty-five minutes. You know what I’m thinking?” he adds, leaning back.
“What’s that?”
“I think I need some skincare too.”
I tilt my head, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying… while we wait for our Mexican, I should do skincare.” He gestures vaguely at his face with both hands. “You know, for the future.”
I blink. “You don’t need skincare.” I can’t help the laugh that slips out.
“It’s for the future,” he repeats, throwing my own words back at me with a smirk. “I’m preventing all that stuff from happening. Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I don’t want good skin too.”
I nod. “Okay. Fair. You’re right.”
I set my laptop on the end table and hop off the couch. “Come on, let’s go do your skincare.”
He follows me down the hall. In my bathroom, I grab my little container of under-eye patches from the counter and start holding them up like I’m giving him a menu.
“So,” I say. “We’ve got options. The purple ones are for puffiness. The yellow ones have vitamin C—they’re supposed to be brightening or something. And the pink ones are for fine lines and wrinkles.”
Miles taps his chin thoughtfully. “I think I want pink.”
“Good choice,” I say. “No one wants wrinkles under their eyes.”
I peel out one of the jelly-slick patches and gently press it beneath his left eye, smoothing it with my fingertip. He stands perfectly still while I repeat the process on the other side.
We both look up into the mirror at our reflections—me with my purple patches, him with his pink.
“I love it,” he declares proudly.
I burst out laughing. “You look so good. Honestly? Fewer wrinkles already.”
He raises his brows, matching my tone. “Oh, definitely. So smooth.”
We both laugh again, the bathroom filling with the wonderful sound.
When our laughter finally dies down, he looks at me—really looks at me—in that way I pretend doesn’t curl my toes.
“Uh-oh,” he says lightly.
“What is it?” I ask, instantly self-conscious.
“Your mask is sliding. It’s like halfway down your cheek.”
Before I can fix it, his hand lifts. Warm fingers brush my skin as he gently nudges the slick eye patch back into place under my eye. I nod, trying to act casual even though his touch sends a quiet, traitorous flutter spiraling through my stomach.
“Yeah, that happens,” I say. “They’re slippery things.”
But he pauses. And suddenly we’re standing face-to-face, barely a breath apart, and the sight of him in pink eye patches—something that was hilarious thirty seconds ago—somehow… isn’t funny anymore. Not with him looking at me like that. Not with his hand lingering a split-second too long.
My stomach flips. I swallow hard, force out a soft, awkward chuckle, and step back before my thoughts get completely out of hand.
“Well—thanks for adjusting,” I say quickly.
He clears his throat, rubbing the back of his neck. “Right. Yeah. Purple’s for puffiness. Wouldn’t want to, uh… decrease cheek puffiness.”
“Exactly. Come on,” I say, needing movement. “Let’s go get our drinks ready. Our food should be here soon.”
“I can’t wait,” he says, following me out. “Should we watch a show while we eat?”
“Yeah, of course. What do you think?”
We go back and forth, debating the merits of dozens of shows.
Just as I’m deciding between two options, he gestures at his face. “How long do we keep these on again?”
I shrug. “Honestly? I don’t really know. I usually just keep them on until they dry out.”
He gives me a look. “You really don’t know much about your skincare.”
“Hey,” I defend, laughing. “I told you—puffiness, wrinkles, all that stuff.”
“Right,” he drawls with mock seriousness. “All that stuff.”
He grabs two glasses as I start pulling out ice. “Okay, I say we watch something easy. Like a rerun.”
He raises a brow. “You’re suggesting Friends, aren’t you?”
“Who doesn’t love a good Friends episode?” I counter.
“True,” he says, bumping his shoulder lightly into mine. “Friends, it is.”