CHAPTER 23 Sophie Summers

Miller Poked Something Inside Me

Morning dawns, and as I wake to a new day, I feel a little…out of sorts.

Miller’s arm is under me as he sleeps soundly on his back, and I’m lying on his chest, one arm tossed across his abdomen.

We’ve slept in the same bed before, but not after a night where we had sex. Twice. And not when I woke up snuggling him.

I can’t put my finger on what it is that’s making me feel out of sorts. I only know what it’s not . It’s not a hangover, and it’s not regret.

I glance at the clock. It’s already after seven, and usually I’ve been up for nearly three hours at this time of day. Usually I’ve hit my word count goal, and I’m already showered and ready to face the day.

But that was all back when I was a teacher. Now, I’m a full-time author and the fiancée of Miller Banks.

Life has sure changed a lot over the last few weeks.

That has to be what has me feeling all out of sorts .

I stare up at his face as he breathes his even breaths. I wonder if he’s dreaming. I wonder if it’s about last night.

It felt like a dream.

Maybe we shouldn’t have done what we did. Maybe we shouldn’t have crossed that line.

I think it might be fear that seems to be plowing into me this morning.

I’m scared that we just altered the course of our friendship. I’m scared I’m going to lose him.

I’m scared I’ll never be enough for someone like him, someone who can have any woman they want at the snap of a finger.

He’s the total package—a great personality, dangerously good looks, money in the bank, and a secure job doing what he loves.

Oh, and he has a big cock that he certainly knows how to use.

And what am I? An unemployed teacher whose new paychecks are unstable at best. A roommate mooching off the guy who offered me a place to stay. I promised to cook for him. I still haven’t.

I’m scared of commitment. I just got out of a relationship, and my ex hurt me. Badly.

But it was Miller who was there to pick up the pieces when Tyler tried to ruin my life. It’s Miller who’s giving me a shot at my dreams.

It’s Miller who I should resist. I need to resist him. But I’m just not sure that’s possible after the kind of night we shared.

I slip out of bed and pull on some sweats. I brush my teeth and head down to the kitchen, make a cup of coffee, and sit at my computer.

And then the words seem to pour out of me as if by pure magic mixed with caffeine. Words are flowing in a way they haven’t flowed in months, and it’s like Miller poked something inside me with that cockzilla of his .

Whatever it was would love the pleasure of being poked again.

I finish the scene I’m working on and plot out the next few chapters, and then I get started on the next one. Miller saunters down a little after nine.

“Good morning,” he says, and I’m sort of expecting him to stop and press his lips to that little crook between my neck and shoulder.

He doesn’t, and a wave of disappointment passes through me.

“Morning,” I say, and I continue tapping on my keys until I finish the sentence I’m working on.

He walks over toward his little coffee station and makes himself a cup as he pulls out the stuff to make breakfast.

“Want some?” he asks.

I save my file and close my laptop, and then I say, “I’d love some. Can I help?”

“I got it.”

“Will you show me?” I hop down from my chair and head over toward him.

“Of course.” He pulls the ingredients out of the pantry as he explains that these are steel-cut oats, and he stirs the oats into the boiling water and milk combination he started on the stove.

It’s small talk. Meaningless chatter about breakfast as neither one of us acknowledges what happened last night, and I hate that suddenly things feel awkward between us.

“We can’t leave it. It’s been known to boil over,” he warns, and he keeps stirring the mixture. He sets a timer for twenty-five minutes, and he leans on the counter beside the stove, folding his arms across his chest once he’s comfortable with the simmering level of the oats.

“Now we wait?” I guess .

He lifts a shoulder. “Now we stir every few minutes so it doesn’t stick to the pot, and we stand by to keep a close eye on it.”

I nod, and I lean on the kitchen island that’s behind me. I mimic his posture, folding my arms over my chest as if it’ll protect my heart from the conversation we should likely have.

“How’d you sleep?” he asks.

“Really good. You?”

“Good until you left,” he admits.

We’re both quiet, and my eyes are down on the floor. I glance up at him, and he’s looking at me. “What?” I ask.

He presses his lips together. “I want to kiss you.”

I’m not sure why relief seems to filter through me at his words, but it does. “Then do it.”

He closes the gap of a few feet between us with one long stride, and I look up into his eyes.

“I probably have coffee breath,” I admit since I’m already on my third cup of the day.

He chuckles. “So do I.” He moves down until his lips collide with mine, and as our lips touch, it’s as if any awkwardness I felt this morning disappears into thin air.

Instead, lust takes hold as he kisses me so sweetly and tenderly. It’s unexpected from him and from our relationship, and I feel like I’ll never get enough.

We both hear a hiss at the same time and jump apart, and he rushes over to the stove to lift the pot and turn down the heat after the oatmeal boiled over as advertised.

“Shit!” he yells. He sets the pot back down and stirs it, and we both review the clumpy mess that we’ll have to deal with once the stove is off and cools down.

“I mean, honestly…that kiss was worth it.” I shrug, and he laughs. “It’s time I start making myself useful around here, anyway, and I can clean it. ”

“Making yourself useful? I’ll tell you what, Summers, you sure made yourself useful last night.” He turns back toward me and loops an arm around my waist. He hauls me against him and rests his forehead against mine for a beat.

“By offering my very comfortable bed for sleep?” I tease.

His lips connect with mine for a brief moment. “I think you know exactly what I mean.”

That familiar, delicious ache is back in full force between my legs at his words.

I clear my throat. “Well, to be honest, I’d like to make myself useful again.

” I nip a kiss at his lips as he bucks his hips toward me, letting me know that he is also ready to make himself useful as well.

“After the oatmeal is done cooking, of course.”

He laughs, and he pulls back to stir the oatmeal before it boils over again.

And honestly? I sort of need the space to cool down a bit. This is my best friend. I’m not used to having these raunchy and inappropriate thoughts about him, but maybe they’re the exact right thoughts I should’ve been having about him all along.

Maybe we were both missing what was right in front of us this whole time, and maybe we’re on track to correct that now.

Once the oatmeal is ready, he adds peanut butter, nuts, chia seeds, banana, and some protein powder to his, and I sprinkle a few nuts on mine. We sit at the table with our oatmeal and coffee, and he asks the first question.

“What’s on your agenda for the day?”

It’s a Sunday, and when I was a teacher, I’d always spend the morning grading papers and the entire rest of the day writing—as long as Tyler didn’t make other plans for us, which he often did. I never wanted to take weekends off since it was the only time I really had to write.

But now I have unlimited time thanks to Miller, and part of me wants to take the day off and spend it with him .

I never felt that urge with Tyler.

“Usually I spend my Sundays writing,” I admit. “But that was before when I had a job to go to, and weekends were my only time to get words in. What about you?”

“Since last night was a late night out for everyone I usually meet for early morning workouts, I don’t have any plans for the day. Want to do something together, or do you need to write?”

I glance up at him, and I surprise even myself when I say, “Let’s do something.”

“Got anything in mind?” he asks.

“Well, we could plan our wedding,” I deadpan, but he doesn’t take it as a joke.

“I was thinking about that, actually. It would be nice to have a date in mind, maybe even a location—you know, for when the media asks.”

“Do you really want to set a date when it’s not even real?” I ask.

His gaze moves from my eyes down to his oatmeal, but I don’t miss the little dart of something in his eyes before he moved them.

Is he…is he upset that I just said it’s not real?

Why am I getting the feeling he is?

He clears his throat. “Right. I don’t know. I just figured if we’re doing this for the media, it would look more believable if we had some plans.”

“We could do it here. Do they have chapels for quickie weddings in San Diego?”

“I would assume every major metropolitan area has chapels for quickie weddings, but is that what you want?” he asks.

He asked me that about Vegas, too.

And the answer is no. No, it’s not. Not for my real wedding to my forever husband.

But that’s not what this is.

Still, it begs the question.

What exactly is this, then?

And are we really going to go through with it?

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