Chapter 18
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
MIRANDA
By the time we pull into the driveway, the world is a whiteout, and the house is a shadow.
The streetlights are dead. The neighboring roofs are soft mounds, the trees bowed with heavy snow like they’re trying to sleep through the storm.
Miles kills the engine, and the sudden silence roars—no heater, no music, just the wind hurling itself at Michigan.
“It’s going to be a fun adventure,” he says, breath puffing in the cold air between us.
“I’m not convinced.”
We sprint for the porch, heads ducked against the sting. The lock sticks, so he shoulders the door like a gentle battering ram, and we tumble inside, stamping snow onto the mat. The house is darker than I’ve ever seen it. Even the usual city glow is gone, and the windows are black mirrors.
“Okay,” he says, clapping once like he’s about to coach a drill. “Rule one: conserve phone battery. Flashlights on low. Rule two: layers.”
“How can you not have a generator?” I question, teeth chattering as I unzip my coat. “It’s not like you can’t afford one.”
He grins in the beam of his phone. “I never needed one.”
“But you’ve lost power before?”
“Of course. On average, we lose it a couple of times a year. It’s part of life with all the ice and snowstorms we get.
But it’s never really affected me. I mean, most of the time I’m traveling anyway.
Or it only lasts a couple of hours before the power crews fix the lines and get it back up and running.
A lot of people have generators to keep their refrigerator running so they don’t lose all their food, but you saw the contents of my fridge when you moved in.
I wasn’t too worried about that. Plus, if the outage lasted long, I could just stay in a hotel.
So I suppose I never felt the urgency to get a generator installed. ”
“So we should only be out of power for a couple of hours then, before they fix the lines?” Hope swells in my chest.
Miles tilts his head to the side. “I don’t know. This time might be different. The alert said major damage to a power center. I’m not sure how long that will take to fix. I don’t think it’s as simple as repairing a power line.”
“So we should go to a hotel then?”
He laughs. “Let’s give it a few. We’re fine. Safe. We have blankets. There’s no need to worry.”
I cross my arms. “Yeah, I don’t know about that.”
Miles pulls me into a hug and rubs my back. I lean into his warmth.
“Trust me. We’ll be fine.”
My worry evaporates because I do trust Miles more than anyone. He would never let me be in any real danger. The snow spooked this Cali girl for a second, but I’m good now.
I blow out a breath. “Alright. Teach me how to be a Michigander in a power outage.”
First, we do a quick scavenger hunt and find every candle in the house—most of which I impulsively bought on one of our many trips to HomeGoods because the jars were pretty.
I guess Miles’s insistence on my adding touches to our place is paying off.
We find a lighter in the junk drawer and start lighting the candles.
When we’re finished, the entire kitchen and living room area is aglow with candlelight.
Miles pulls a tower of blankets out of the linen closet and places them on the ottoman in front of the sofa.
“We won’t be cold with all these,” he says.
The storm is still there, thrashing at the windows, but the little gold flames make a stubborn circle of warmth.
We peel off our wet things and exchange them for sweats.
He hands me a sweatshirt—one of his, because mine are somewhere in the dryer that won’t be turning on tonight. It smells like laundry soap and him.
“All better?” He tugs the collar of my borrowed hoodie.
“Much better,” I say, my voice shaking with a small shiver.
He notices. “Sit.”
I do as instructed, and he covers me with one blanket after the other before climbing beneath the mountain of blankets and sitting beside me.
“Come here.” He wraps his arm around my shoulders.
I hesitate a beat, but then I lean in. His body heat is immediate, and I scoot in closer.
“Better?” he asks.
I nod into his shoulder. “You’re a furnace.”
“High-performance model.” His voice is playful, but low. In the candlelight, his profile is all warm lines—the strong nose, the ridiculous lashes, the curve of his mouth that looks permanently ready to smile. I am not looking at his mouth. I am absolutely, definitely not—
He clears his throat. “See, I told you. We’re great.”
“Okay, yes. But is this what we do for the foreseeable future? Just sit here huddled together under a blanket?” Amusement lines my voice.
“Pretty much.”
“Well, okay, then…” I chuckle.
“I mean, we can talk, you could read a book by candlelight, or we can play a game.”
I nod. “I guess it doesn’t sound too bad. What about food?”
“We have a pantry full of random stuff we can eat.”
“Yeah, we do. I guess this is going to be an adventure.”
He proposes Twenty Questions. I counter with This or That. We decide to play both. The one thing we have is time.
“Okay, starting with an easy one,” he says, settling deeper under the blankets. “This or that: summer or winter?”
“Summer,” I answer quickly. “I like to feel my fingers.”
“Figured.” He wiggles his fingers under the blanket and brushes the back of my hand, just a brief, friendly touch that shoots awareness up my arm. “Beach or mountains?”
“Beach. But not crowded. Like… empty beach at sunset.”
“Specific.” He smiles. “Pancakes or waffles?”
“Waffles. They’re little syrup bathtubs.” I tilt my head. “You?”
“Waffles. For engineering reasons.”
He thinks for a beat. “Okay, Twenty Questions. Person, place, or thing?”
“Thing.”
He narrows his eyes at me like I’m a worthy adversary. I try not to internally swoon at the proximity of his stare.
“Is it bigger than a breadbox?”
“Yes.”
“Is it in this room?”
“Yes.”
“Is it… my ego?”
I laugh. “Bigger.”
“Impossible.” He pretends to be offended, then points toward the window. “Is it the storm?”
“No.”
“The couch?”
“No, but close.”
“The pile of blankets?”
“Yes!” I say, a smile tugging at my lips.
“That’s so lame,” he teases. “You couldn’t pick something that you’re not physically touching to make it more challenging.”
“I’m too tired to think,” I grumble.
“We could go to bed, you know. It is late. Maybe when we wake up, the power will be back on.”
“I don’t want to be alone.”
The statement, as ridiculous as it is, escapes my mouth before I can stop it.
It’s silly. I’ve slept alone my entire life.
I’m a strong woman who doesn’t need anyone.
Why am I feeling so vulnerable? Surely, the absence of electricity isn’t the source of my discomfort.
I’ve never considered myself someone who needs artificial light to feel whole.
Yet there’s something deep within me that I can’t quite name that is making me feel exposed.
Maybe it’s a little bit of everything—life, the plane ride from hell today, the storm, and feeling perpetually stuck in a lonely existence because I’m too afraid to be vulnerable.
Miles grabs my chin and turns my face toward his. His stare holds mine. “You’re not alone, Miranda.”
“I…” I want to say something, but what? My emotions are all over the place. I’m cocooned in this blanket, warm and surrounded by the scent and feel of… him.
His large hands cup my face. “Talk to me. What is it?”
Closing my eyes, I exhale a breath and lean into the palm of his hand. The words I’m so desperate to say refuse to come. All I know is that I don’t want to go up to my cold room by myself.
Tomorrow’s regret claws at the back of my throat, warning me to hold my tongue, but I don’t want to.
“Will you stay with me tonight?” My words are a whisper.
Miles attempts to hide his shock, but it’s written all over his face.
I pull away from his touch. “Never mind. I’m fine. I’ll be fine.”
“Stop,” he coaxes gently. Pulling me back toward him, he brushes his lips against my temple. “I just want to make sure we’re on the same page. I don’t want to make a mistake, especially with you. Do you want me to lie with you until you fall asleep?”
I shake my head.
“You want me to stay all night?”
I nod.
“To sleep,” he clarifies. “I can do that.”
My heart hammers out an unsteady rhythm while warning sirens blare inside my head. But I don’t care. Put it off to the storm, my raging hormones, my near-death experience, or the romantic flicker of the dozens of candles around us, but I simply want Miles.
My needy stare finds his, and we stay there, locked in indecision and lust. My tongue peeks out to wet my lips. I lift my hand and run the pad of my thumb over his bottom lip. It trembles at my touch.
Miles’s chest rises and falls in unison with mine.
Heavy breaths saturate the space between us.
I turn toward him and lean up on my knees. His hands slide beneath the oversized sweatshirt and fist at my waist. My hands cup his jaw now. His day-old scruff pokes against my skin, and I drag my thumb against his lip again. He closes his eyes, breathing heavy.
I can feel his entire body trembling. The need he feels for me is palpable, but I’m not going to pretend that I haven’t known it was there this whole time. Miles has wanted me for months, maybe from the start. But he held off because he knew that wasn’t what I wanted.
He’s holding back now. Always the gentleman.
I don’t want him to hold back anymore. I just need to say the words, and I’ll get to experience what I’ve been craving from the moment I stared into his beautiful blues months ago.
Still cupping his jaw, I tilt forward and brush my lips against his.
He opens his eyes. “Are you sure?” His voice sounds pained.
I nod.
“I need to hear it.”
“I’m sure,” I breathe out.