8. Miles
8
Miles
Miles propped himself up against a streetlamp outside Phil’s Diner. A neon sign hummed above, throwing a red glow onto the sidewalk as the breeze carried salt and the smoky scent of grilled onions and fries.
His fingers brushed over the spiral shell in his pocket, tracing its familiar ridges. He’d been standing here for fifteen minutes already, still not entirely sure what to call this evening with Wendi. Not a date, exactly—they hadn’t used that word. Just dinner. Simple enough. But that didn’t explain the nervous energy coursing through him or why he’d changed shirts twice before leaving.
Whatever this was, dating hadn’t exactly been a highlight reel lately. There was the Atlanta fitness influencer who’d mistaken their date for a podcast monologue. And the woman from the bar who’d lost interest the second she’d realized he wasn’t fighting fires anymore. And he couldn’t forget the lady from the app who’d turned from charming to concerning—showing up at his apartment unannounced after he’d bailed twice, then flooding his phone with messages for weeks after.
He checked his phone again—7:15.
Maybe she changed her mind?
Just as he turned to leave, Wendi hurried up the sidewalk, cheeks flushed and slightly breathless.
“Sorry I’m late,” she said, sweeping stray strands of hair behind her ear. “Max wasn’t having it when he saw me getting ready. Hid under the bed until I bribed him with treats—then made a break for it the second I opened the door.”
She’d changed into a green dress, fitted just enough to make him aware of her figure, while her hair tumbled in loose red waves around her shoulders. Wendi wasn’t just beautiful. She was the kind of beautiful that made a man forget whatever he’d been thinking a second ago.
And here I am, looking like I just came off a three-day camping trip. Great.
Miles opened his mouth, then stopped.
Cute? Too casual.
Pretty? Maybe.
Gorgeous? Definitely too much.
He cleared his throat. “You clean up good.”
“Thanks.” She looked downward. “I don’t usually dress up much these days.”
Miles glanced at his flannel and jeans, then shrugged. “It’s the fanciest outfit I packed.”
“Flannel works.” Her smile did something weird to his collar—tightened it, somehow.
They stood there for a moment—that split second of not being sure whether to hug, shake hands, or go inside. Miles chose to open the door.
Inside, Phil’s Diner delivered what the name promised—checkered floors, red vinyl booths, and a vintage jukebox spinning the latest Taylor Swift hit. The walls were lined with photos showing Hadley Cove throughout the decades.
Miles’s attention drifted to a picture from the early 2000s—an old storefront, now a hardware store, draped with banners for a town fair. Another captured a community fundraiser, a row of wagging tails barely peeking into the frame. A third showed a school field day: kids in oversized T-shirts, mid-laugh as they dodged water balloons, while parents stood nearby with plates of food. Off to the side, a burly man worked the grill, dishing out burgers from a steaming tray.
“Red!” A mountain of a man in a white apron approached, arms outstretched and a wide smile on his face. “Well, look at you—mighty fancy tonight.”
“Something like that,” Wendi said with a grin. “Phil, this is Miles.”
Phil shook Miles’s hand with a firm grip. “Any friend of Wendi’s is welcome here.” He led them to a corner booth, wiping the table, before his eyes landed on Wendi. “The usual?”
“Actually, let’s do the Beyond Burger instead of the Impossible one. And I’ll swap the Dr. Pepper for a vanilla oat milkshake.”
“Switching it up on me, I see.” Phil turned to Miles. “And for you, son?”
Miles scanned the menu, his eyes darting from one item to the next.
“Ah, you’re looking at the breakfast-for-dinner specials?” Phil asked. “Well, if you’re gonna do it, you might as well go all in. Try the pumpkin spice pancakes. They come with a seasonal syrup and a coffee to match. It’s the Fall favorite.”
Miles nodded, smiling. “That sounds great.”
“Good to see Wendi Parker finally letting a man take her out,” Phil called over his shoulder as he walked away.
Wendi rolled her eyes. “He’s been on a mission to find me a man ever since I moved back.”
“Any luck?”
“Not yet,” she said with a smirk, leaning back in the booth.
Miles smiled and tilted his head. “So, ‘Red?’”
“Had the hair since birth, so people got lazy with nicknames around here.”
Phil returned with their drinks. “How’s the little troublemaker doing? When do we get to see him again?”
Wendi shot him a pointed look. “You remember what happened last time ...”
Phil waved her off. “Max is always welcome here.”
Miles raised an eyebrow. “What happened?”
“Max swiped Mrs. Peterson’s biscuit straight off her plate. Then ran laps like he’d won the Super Bowl while half the diner chased him.”
“A little chaos never hurt anyone.” Phil chuckled. “Besides, business was slow that day—gave us something to talk about for weeks. Anyway, I’ll be back with your orders in a jiff!”
As Phil walked away, Miles sipped his coffee. “How long have you been back?”
“A little over a year.” She stirred her shake with the straw. “Made one call to the bank, got approved, and the shop was opened a few weeks later.”
“Bold move. One phone call and you got a store? Last time I tried that, I only got a pizza.”
The corner of Wendi’s mouth quirked upward. “So tell me something random about you. Can be anything.”
Miles leaned back, pretending to consider. “Easy one—I hate beer. Can’t do it. I always end up ordering fruity drinks instead.”
“No way! Same. People swear it’s an acquired taste, but I’m pretty sure that’s a lie.”
“Right? I can handle shots, no problem. But beer? Yeah, that’s a no-go for me.”
“Me too. Hate it ... Okay, I have an idea. On three, say your favorite drink. Ready?”
“Alright.”
Wendi counted down. “Three ... two ... one ...”
“Tequila Sunrise,” they both blurted at the exact same time. Then blinked.
“I knew there was a reason I liked you,” she said.
“Same. We’re getting them sometime soon.”
“Deal,” she said, as her gaze locked onto his.
Phil reappeared, setting down a towering stack of pancakes for Miles and a burger with golden fries for Wendi. “Enjoy, y’all.”
Miles cut into his pancakes, took a bite, and closed his eyes. “Okay, these pancakes might be life-changing.”
“Of course.” Wendi groaned as a drop of milkshake hit her dress. “Can’t take me anywhere.”
Without thinking, he slid his napkin across the table toward her. Their fingers brushed, and he caught himself studying the curve of her neck where it met her shoulder.
At that moment, Taylor Swift’s “This is Why We Can’t Have Nice Things” started playing on the jukebox. Wendi pointed at the speaker, and they both burst out laughing.
“Can’t make this up,” Miles said.
Wendi dramatically mouthed along with the chorus, and Miles joined in, using his spoon as an impromptu microphone. A few other diners glanced their way, but they were too busy to care, trying to outdo each other with increasingly ridiculous facial expressions as they silently performed the song.
After the bridge, Miles set the spoon down. “If it’s any consolation, you still look great, milkshake and all.”
“Thanks. I guess it’s not too obvious.” Wendi set the napkin down. “You know, I used to stress about stuff like this all the time. My ex always wanted me dressed up for something. Corporate dinners, networking events, designer everything. But mainly for him. Heaven forbid I decided not to wear makeup.”
“Sounds exhausting.”
“It was. And juggling that with my PR job at Pinnacle Hotels? Pure misery.”
Miles leaned in. “What made you finally leave the job?”
She ran a fingertip along the rim of her glass. “Well ... I was in the middle of a presentation to forty executives, explaining our rebrand strategy, and out of nowhere, my hands started shaking. I couldn’t get the words out. I tried to push through, but it kept getting worse. Before I knew it, I was hyperventilating in the bathroom while my assistant called 911.” She paused, releasing a deep breath. “It was like everything hit me all at once. I realized I couldn’t keep living like that.” She looked up. “Sorry for the trauma dump.”
“No, don’t be sorry. I asked because I wanted to know. You’ve been through a lot, Wendi.”
“Oh, the saga continues. James filed for divorce two months later. Said he ‘hadn’t signed up for this.’ After that, I returned to Hadley Cove with nothing but Max and the dream of being an art store owner.”
“How long have you had Max?”
“About two years now. Got him during the divorce. He was at the city shelter. They found him after some kids had been throwing rocks at him. He was there for months and was scheduled to be euthanized. I happened to see him online and went in just in time ...” She shook her head. “Those eyes. It was like we recognized each other. Like we were meant to be together, you know?”
Miles nodded. “You both needed each other.”
“Exactly. He stayed by my side through everything.” A flicker of a smile passed across Wendi’s lips. “And now he apparently loves your dad more than me. Ungrateful.”
“Nah, but it kind of does look that way.” His tone shifted. “Thanks for sharing all that. I know it doesn’t always feel like it, but your best days haven’t even happened yet. At least, that’s what I keep telling myself.”
Her eyes twinkled as they met his with a quiet intensity.
The moment broke when an elderly woman appeared beside their table. “Wendi Parker! Why haven’t you introduced me to your handsome friend here?”
Wendi grinned. “How rude of me. Ada, this is Miles. Miles, Ada Harrison.”
Ada sported an orange velvet blazer over an ivory silk blouse. Wide-legged pants, sleek black heels, a strand of pearls, and diamond studs. A vintage flower brooch perched on her lapel, while oversized sunglasses sat atop her wild, snowy-white hair.
“Mind if I join y’all?” She didn’t wait for an answer before sliding in beside Wendi.
“So, Miles”—Ada leaned forward—“where’s home? And what brings you to our town?
“Atlanta. Here to help my dad out for a while.”
“And who might your father be?”
“Arthur Dalton.”
“Oh, Arthur, the painter!” Ada clasped her hands together. “I see him nearly every morning during my beach walks. Always so focused, he barely notices me waving.”
“That’s him. I’m sure he doesn’t mean to—”
“Though I must say,”—she eyed Miles’s arms—“Arthur’s talented, but he doesn’t have those.”
Miles chuckled. “Thanks.”
She patted Wendi’s hand. “Good choice, dear. Good choice, indeed.”
Wendi blushed. “We’re just friends.”
“Oh, they always start as ‘just friends.’ And I might just make an appearance at your ‘Save the Shell’ auction Wednesday. Had no clue how much trouble your shop was in. If you’d mentioned it sooner, I could’ve made a call—gotten that rent lowered in no time. Or at least, rounded up more of the ladies from the club to visit your little art store.”
Wendi pressed her lips together.
As Ada rose, she circled the table and pulled Miles into a hug that smelled strongly of gardenias and potpourri. The embrace lingered well past the point of comfort and she gave his bicep a quick squeeze before finally releasing him. “Have any of the men in Hadley Cove even heard of a pushup? Apparently, Miles has.”
She turned to Wendi, wrapping her into an equally suffocating hug. “Don’t let this one get away, dear.”
As soon as Ada was out of earshot, they both exhaled a small laugh.
“What was that?” Miles asked.
“That’s Ada for you. You’re officially a local now.”
“She’s something, that’s for sure.” He paused as his pulse ticked up—nothing dramatic, but enough that he felt it.
Just ask.
Miles let out a steady breath, hoping to keep his voice even. “Want to come by tonight? Help pick out some paintings for the auction?”