36. A Hard Bargain
36
A HARD BARGAIN
Leighton
I have questions. Starting with: “Where did you learn to cook? Did you go to culinary school while getting your philosophy and psychology degrees?”
Miles smirks, his lips curving upward as he flips the omelet in the pan. “Not at the culinary school level,” he replies, his tone teasing, but it’s clear he enjoys the compliment.
It’s the best morning ever. Miles wears glasses, low-slung black lounge pants, and a snug gray T-shirt that clings to his broad shoulders. His ink peeks out from beneath the short sleeves as he flips mushroom omelets at the stovetop. Cindy’s curled into a dog ball on my lap, snoozing as I sip my green tea at the counter.
It’s the kind of domestic moment I never knew I craved until now—comfortably sitting across from someone, a man who makes me feel like I belong, the smell of breakfast in the air .
“I am, however, a tea sommelier,” I quip, taking another sip.
Miles glances over his shoulder as he slides an omelet onto a plate. “Good,” he says, holding my gaze a beat too long. “You should enjoy everything here.”
There it is again. Here. The word lands, weighted with something unspoken. I spent the night—of course I did. He asked me to, and honestly, I was planning on it anyway. But the question of what comes next looms.
Like, tonight.
I should ask him, but my stomach growls as he sets the plate in front of me, the aroma distracting me, and likely enticing Cindy too much. I scoop her up and set her down in her hot tub, next to her fur siblings.
“So, how did you learn to cook?” I ask again once I return and dig in. The omelet is perfect—savory, fluffy, and impossibly good.
“I taught myself,” he says, coming around the counter with a plate of his own, along with a cup of coffee, and sitting next to me.
It’s nice eating breakfast together. It feels…easy. Like this is something we’ve done a hundred times before instead of something that might not happen again.
“Like, with YouTube and everything?” I tease.
He laughs, shaking his head. “Sweetheart, I started cooking more than twenty years ago. YouTube wasn’t a thing. I learned from the Food Network and books.”
“Books?” I feign shock, clutching my chest dramatically. “You had to learn from books? How old are you?”
Miles shoots me a mock-stern look. “Keep it up, and I’ll put you over my knee.”
“That only makes me want to tease you more,” I reply, grinning as I take another bite. “This is incredible, by the way.”
“I’m glad you like it.” He takes a bite of his, and after he finishes, he says, “I had to learn.”
“Why?”
“My dad was the cook.”
“Oh,” I say, understanding dawning. Miles had mentioned at Birdie’s coffee shop that his dad had left without warning. “And so you took it on then?”
“Yup,” he says, then takes another bite.
That fits him so perfectly. That’s what he does. He takes things on without complaining—responsibilities, people, pets, chores.
“I didn’t want to make things harder on Mom than they already were,” he adds. “I focused on school and helping out with Tyler and Charlie since they were younger. Mom was working full-time and already had enough on her plate. So to speak.”
My smile fades. “School, your siblings, the house, hockey. That’s a lot for a teenager. Did she ask you to step up?”
“No,” he says, his tone a little clipped. “My dad did. Right before he left. He told me I needed to be the man of the house.”
“That’s a lot to put on you.”
He shrugs again, as if shrugging off the memory. “Someone had to do it.”
My chest tightens, a mix of admiration and something deeper—my own hurt over what he went through. I know what it’s like to be left by a parent. But my dad took everything on for Riley and me, his parents helping out. I didn’t have to become an early parent. Miles doesn’t just step up—he sacrifices without hesitation. It’s such a part of what he does and who he is that he thinks it’s not a big deal. So I push back a little. “Sure, someone had to do it. But you did it. And it’s a lot. I admire that,” I say, since I want him to know it is a big deal what he did, even if he doesn’t see it that way.
A smile teases at his lips. “Yeah? You do?”
“Of course I do. It’s very you,” I say.
His eyes are soft, a little vulnerable, almost like he’s glad someone noticed. “I guess so.” He heaves a sigh, scratching his jaw. Something’s on his mind. Maybe something he’s not sure he wants to say. But then he soldiers on. “I wanted to ask why he said that to me— to step up . Why he left me with that…weight. That responsibility. At first, I just did it. I stepped up. Cooked, cleaned, studied, helped out. But later, when I graduated from high school, I was a little pissed at him. I really wanted to understand why .”
I reach for his hand, urging him to keep going. “I’d have been more than a little pissed.”
“I wanted closure,” he says, his voice heavy as he opens up, but also calm, steady. “I wanted to tell him how I felt. But when I tracked him down, I found out he’d died of a heart attack.”
My heart squeezes—not for his dad, but for this man with me right now. “I’m sorry, Miles.”
He swallows, sighs, then says with some resignation, “Me too.” He pauses, holds my gaze. “And thank you. For asking.”
It’s said like it’s what he needed all along.
“Of course,” I say, then even though it might make him uncomfortable, I ask the next thing. “What would you have told him? If you found him? What’s the closure you wanted? ”
If he needs closure, maybe he can get it…with me.
Now.
Here.
He blows out a long breath. “Good question.” His brow furrows, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the answer. “I think I’d have said I wished he had the guts to tell me the truth before he took off. That it was unfair to leave like that. That it pissed me off.” He looks away, then back at me. “But also, I think what I really wanted to say is—he missed out. It was his loss. I wanted him to know he had an amazing, clever daughter in Charlie who turned out to be a passionate advocate for animal rights, a son in Tyler who’s funny as hell and ferocious on the ice, and more disciplined than anyone I know. A wife who is the best mom in the world. And he missed out on all that,” he says, emotion in his voice, but it’s clear the emotion is reserved for his family, not for the family member who left.
“And a strong, thoughtful, caring, smart, incredibly resilient son who’s pretty passionate too,” I add.
Miles’s lips tilt in another smile as he moves in for a kiss. A soft, tender one that ends with a “thank you” whispered against my lips. When he pulls back, he adds, “For the closure.”
“You’re welcome,” I say, then glance down at the food. “Oh! I should have added—who’s an excellent chef too.”
“A hot chef,” he says.
“A hot tattooed chef,” I add, my gaze drifting over the ink on his forearm as we resume eating.
“You like my ink, Leighton?” he asks, like he’s glad I do.
“It’s hot. What’s this one for?” I ask, tracing the arrow tattoo that runs along his arm .
“Focus,” he says. “I got it when I went to college. It was my reminder to stay on track.”
“Well, two degrees and hockey—I’d say it worked.”
“A little,” he deadpans.
My attention shifts to a colorful tattoo on his bicep, a tree with bright fall leaves. “And this?”
“Family tree,” he says with a sweet smile. “For my mom, Birdie, Tyler, and Charlie.”
Not his dad. He doesn’t have to say it; I get it. My life’s the same.
“I love it,” I say, glancing back at the plate in front of me. “And I love your cooking.”
“I told you I’d cook for you,” he says with a small, self-satisfied smile.
I flash back to last night, to the groceries he sent here with that cocky note: For when I cook for you.
“You were so presumptuous,” I say, raising an eyebrow. But inside, I keep wondering—how many more times would he like to cook for me?
“I thought you said I was cocky,” he counters, grinning as he lifts his coffee mug.
“Same thing,” I reply, but my mind circles back to that word again. Here.
“Miles,” I say, swallowing down the nerves. This isn’t easy, but it needs to be said. “What are we doing?”
He sets his mug down, his eyes locking on mine. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.” His voice is full of emotion, mostly hope and longing.
Relief washes over me, followed by something brighter, sharper. “I don’t either,” I say, and it’s hard being vulnerable. Truly hard, but how could I be anything else with him when he lays himself bare?
He leans forward, resting his forehead against mine briefly before he pulls back. “Then don’t go home tonight.”
I laugh softly. “You’ve still got the dogs. You need my help, of course.”
“Exactly. I have them till Sunday night. Stay and help me with them,” he says, his grin turning wicked. His eyes make it clear we both know that’s not why he wants me to stay.
I hesitate for a moment, wondering what happens after a few more days . Questions about the future circle me, but they always do. The future is my albatross, so I bat them aside. I narrow in on the present, weighing the practical risks instead. But really, there aren’t many. Who would know the difference? No one. No one has to know where I stay.
“Yes,” I say, my voice firm. “On one condition.”
He arches a brow. “I give you countless orgasms?”
“That’s a given,” I shoot back. “But I’m walking the dogs, and I’m cleaning. You’re not getting in my way.”
“Who’s bossy now?” he teases, his eyes sparkling.
“Let me take care of something for once,” I say, softer this time.
His grin fades into something gentler, and he dips his head to kiss me. “You’re making this hard for me.”
Well, that I can’t resist. I slide a hand over his lounge pants. And hello! He’s at half-mast. “I see I am.”
A rumble-growl crosses his lips. “I’ll walk the dogs with you.”
I squeeze his growing erection, then stand my ground. “But I’m cleaning.”
With a happy sigh, he relents. “Fine.”
“Also, thanks for breakfast,” I say as I slide to my knees, tug on the waistband of his lounge pants, then lick my lips.
His mouth curves up, and he pushes off the stool in seconds flat. “I bet you’d like me to fuck your throat, Shutterbug.”
He knows me too well. I want to be manhandled. I want to be pushed around. “Only if you pull on my hair while you do it,” I say, giving it right back to him.
His eyes darken to flames. I swear I can see lust radiating off his whole body, like an electrical charge. “You and your dealmaking.”
“You love my dealmaking.”
He pauses for a weighty beat, holding my gaze, then says, “I really fucking do.”
It feels like he’s talking about more than a blow job, but for now I focus on the task at hand. Or mouth, really.
I peel down his boxer briefs, his hard cock showing off how ready he is. I kiss the tip, lightly, feather soft.
Then I open wide, grab his hip, and urge him to fuck my throat. Miles doesn’t hesitate. He threads one hand through my hair near my temple, yanking and tugging while filling my mouth.
Exactly how I want him to.
He’s in control, but really, when I play with his balls, drag my nails down his thighs, and squeeze his ass, I’m pretty sure I’m the one in charge.
And the sounds he makes when he comes, the grunts, the groans, the long, carnal growl of my name, tell me how good this deal is for both of us.
Not going to lie—the dog walk is kind of wonderful. It’s almost like a date, but I know it’s safe. I’m just his dog-sitter, after all. No reason we can’t be seen walking them together, if anyone even notices. But I don’t think anyone does.
Besides, it’s impossible to hold hands when you’re managing the leashes of four tiny terrors. By the time we get them home, I need to head to the beach for the Renegades’ volunteer cleanup event. They hired me to take photos, so it’s a work thing, but still—it feels good to be doing something meaningful.
At the door, there’s this awkward moment. How exactly does this work? Do we make plans for later here at his house? Since, well, that’s all we can do. He’s heading out to a luncheon with a sponsor, and I have a shoot. But before I can overthink anything, he says, “Any chance you’d want to meet at High Kick when you’re done with your thing and I’m done with mine?”
“Like…in public?”
His confident grin somehow makes the question feel ridiculous. “She’s my grandmother. We’ve been there before. Besides…” His voice softens. “Aren’t we friends?”
We both know that’s a lie. Friends don’t make my heart trip like this.
“Sure. I’ll text you when I’m done… friend .”
His hand slips to the back of my neck, pulling me in for a toe-curling kiss that says we’re so much more than friends.
What, though, I don’t entirely know.
I’m not sure what I want this to be either. Or, really, what it even can be. And I suspect that’s the same for him, since wanting and having are two entirely different beasts.
High Kick Coffee is quiet in the late afternoon, the stream of customers fading as the sun dips lower and caffeine needs dwindle. Birdie’s signature showgirl music plays softly as I enter, passing Dolly by the door.
I smile at the sequined mannequin, remembering how she caught my attention the day I met Miles—when he carried her in here.
The second the door closes behind me, I shed the stress of the day. The shoot went well, though my mom sent a half-dozen texts teasing “exciting news.” She hasn’t actually told me what it is yet, and I’m not sure I want to know. For now, I leave her drama behind.
I glance around, but Miles isn’t here yet. Behind the counter, Birdie catches my eye and beckons me over, pressing one finger to her bright red lips.
“I saved you a special spot,” she says, her voice full of mischief.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling suspicious. “But I’m meeting Miles here.”
“I know, sweetheart. It’s my job to know these things.” She winks and waves me toward the back.
I feel a little fizzy as I follow her, my suspicion growing. She’s up to something. Or maybe…in on it.
When I round the corner, my suspicions are confirmed. The table she’s picked is tucked into a cozy corner, complete with a small mason jar of wildflowers. It offers a discreet view of the shop—and of Miles, waiting for me.
“Just for you two,” Birdie says, sounding far too pleased before she takes off for the front of the café again.
Miles stands, pulling out my chair. “Hey,” he says, and the way he says that one word reminds me of last night when he returned home. It’s full of hidden meaning.
“Hi,” I say, hoping that one syllable conveys how much I like this unexpected moment too.
His fingers brush mine as I sit, sending a zing of warmth down my chest. I gesture to the tiny vase of flowers, focusing on it instead of the intoxicating feelings bubbling inside me. “Think she does this for everyone?”
He leans closer. “No. I brought the flowers. For you.”
“Oh.” The word gusts past my lips, my surprise unmistakable. No one has brought me flowers in years. Or maybe ever. “I love them. Thank you,” I say in a rush.
“They reminded me of your tattoos,” he says, a hopeful note in his voice. “Want to smell them?”
He knows why I love flowers. The thoughtfulness of it is so specific and so touching that my throat tightens.
“Always.” I lean in, inhaling the gentle fragrance of the blooms and the meaning behind them. They’re fresh, sweet, with a sun-warmed scent that feels like spring.
After I rattle off every note I can detect, I add, a little embarrassed, “I love flowers so much.”
“I know,” he says, his voice full of quiet pride. His gaze drifts to my arm, then to the rest of the shop, as if he’s checking to see if the coast is clear.
It’s just us right now—us and the jazzy music, the warmth of his gift, and the secrecy of our date.
Like a thief, he stretches an arm across the table. His fingers trace the intricate lines of my wildflower tattoos. I shudder, hoping this secret date never ends.
And for a while, it doesn’t. Birdie’s voice calls out, “Order for Boppity.”
I laugh as she turns the corner, bringing us a warm toffee brownie .
“For Boppity,” she says with a wink. “Compliments of the boss.”
We thank her and she smiles, the far too pleased kind, before she leaves us alone again.
“I think she’s trying to get her membership for The Underground Grandma Matchmaking Society reinstated.”
“Trying?” I counter. “I think she has it.”
His smile seems unstoppable. “I hope so.”
Yep. This is definitely the bubble, and I never want to leave it. We talk, we laugh, and everything feels possible here in the cozy corner of his grandmother’s shop. But that’s just the good vibes talking. This is a mirage—the setting, the privacy, all of it. I can’t let it fool me into thinking anything can truly last. But I decide to lean into the heady part—how good I feel when I’m with him.
As we’re finishing, my phone buzzes. I glance down at the screen.
Mom: Can you shoot the new handbags soon? Pretty please? You’re the only one I trust with them. You’re so talented, my love. I could fly you out to New York.
I sigh, setting my phone down, my gut churning with dread and temptation. “My mom. Again.”
His gaze turns serious. “What does she want?” He sounds like he’ll protect me from her, and the passion in his tone does something to me.
“She’s in full force,” I reply, rolling my eyes lightly, trying to mask the way her offer twists me up. I do need more work, and my mom pays well. But I’d probably have to ask for some days off to fly out to New York, and I don’t know if that’s feasible. And I’d be working for someone who doesn’t think much of some of my business choices. The whole situation makes me feel…icky. But that’s a lot to go into on a secret date, and I don’t want to kill the mood. “She wants me to do some work for her. If I don’t respond to her offer to shoot her new line, she’ll text me ten more times.”
He pauses, taking a beat before thoughtfully asking, “Will you say yes?”
“I don’t know. It always feels weird working with her, but it’s work, and I still have that whole rent situation to figure out…” My thoughts tangle.
“What’s the rent thing?”
But today isn’t about her or my rent or anything else. Today, I feel too good to dwell on the practical. “Just the rent is going up at the boudoir studio, but I’ve got it figured out. I’ll work harder. And really, I don’t want to talk about work right now.”
His brow furrows. “You sure? I’m happy to talk about it.”
My heart squeezes at his clear and obvious willingness to chat. I don’t have a ton of romantic experience, but I do have enough to know how rare and precious a man like him is—someone legitimately interested, truly kind, incredibly smart, and, most of all, a great listener.
That’s the rarest part of all. The one I value most.
Right now, though, I’d rather talk about other things. “Thanks,” I say. “I’ll probably take you up on it. But not now.”
He nods, listening once more as he says, “Fair enough. ”
We don’t talk about work anymore. In fact, once we’re home at his place, we don’t talk much at all. We touch, and that’s much better. Especially when he curls his hand around my throat the way he alone can do.
I don’t know why, but that move does it for me. It sends me flying. Later in bed, starlight twinkling through the windows and four small bossy Chihuahuas curled up with us, I turn to him. “No one else has done that to me.”
“Made you come ridiculously hard?”
I laugh but shake my head. I slide my hand over my own throat, demonstrating. “This.”
“Yeah?” He sounds too thrilled. It’s a good sound.
“Yep.”
He covers my hand with his. “Good,” he says, then tilts his head, clearly thinking. “Why me?”
I’m not usually this open. I’m rarely this vulnerable. But he’s earned it. “I trust you.”
A smile plays across his lips, but he must fight it off, since his expression remains serious. “You let me do it the first time we were together.” It’s a statement but really, it’s a question.
“I guess I’ve always trusted you.”
He hums, a low rumbly sound in just the right frequency that I can still hear it. “Sometimes you just know.”