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.”