Chapter 17
Miles and I open our doors and step out into the courtyard at exactly the same time.
I watch as he closes his apartment door, and I find myself wondering what his place looks like. Meticulous? Modern? Messy?
None of my business, but I’ve developed a nosy streak where he’s concerned.
It took me way too long to get ready. I found myself fussing over one strand of uncooperative hair.
I might be a little extra nervous because I’ve actually met Greg, and there’s a little bit of potential there. I settled on
black jeans, a cream off-the-shoulder top, and a pair of pointy kitten heels. I added layered gold necklaces and teardrop
earrings, and my hair, other than the rogue strand, is in its natural curly state—a little wild, because it does what it wants.
When Miles turns and sees me standing there, his eyes go wide. Is my lipstick too bright? Am I trying too hard?
“Wow.” He overemphasizes the word. “You look amazing.”
I brush my hands down my jeans and scrunch my nose. “Yeah?”
“Yeah,” he says, nodding. “What’s-his-name is a lucky guy.” He nods at my bare shoulder. “That’s going to drive him crazy.”
His gaze lingers there for a beat too long, and when he meets my eyes, his smile catches for a split second in the charged
air between us.
“Greg,” I remind him.
“Right. Greg,” he repeats. Then, after a pause, he says, “Kind of dumb for us to take two cars, right?”
“Yeah, I was thinking the same thing,” I say. “But what if you want to bring Daphne back to your place?”
He shakes his head. “I won’t.”
“But what if you guys really hit it off?” I ask.
He scrunches his nose. “Still not bringing her back here.” Then his expression shifts. “What if you want to bring Greg back
to your place?”
I shrug. “He can ride in the back.”
Miles laughs, and I smile, curious about his certainty where the conclusion of the date is concerned. The night I first met
him, he’d had two different women at his place on the same day—but since then, I haven’t seen him with anyone.
I know he’s dating—I watch him leave.
But I also watch him come home.
Ugh. I watch him a lot. I’m officially creepy.
“So do you want to ride with me?” Miles asks.
“Actually, sure,” I say, aware that it might be strange to show up to a date with a man who is not my date. “I’m still not
used to driving in the city.”
We fall into step beside each other and walk toward the gate. For a flicker of a moment, I imagine what it would be like if
Miles and I weren’t meeting other people at this class. If we were going out together, just the two of us.
“This is a sushi class,” Miles says as he opens the door for me. “I figured you haven’t had sushi before?”
He holds eye contact for a three-count before that lazy grin shows up on his face. Before we left the park earlier, Miles
made it clear he wanted to plan this date, but I had no idea he would plan it based on something I want to do.
“No, I haven’t,” I say. “Thank you.”
He closes the door and runs around to the other side of the SUV, and when he gets in, the masculine smell of the car intensifies,
sending a wave of desire straight through me.
Desire? What is that?
He starts the car and connects his phone to the speakers. After a few taps, the familiar riff of Journey’s “Separate Ways”
kicks off. He turns to me, holds up a rock-out symbol with both hands, and bites his bottom lip as he nods comically to the
beat.
“You lunatic.” I laugh. “But great song choice.”
He tells me about one of his pickleball partners—a woman named Sheila who, from the sound of it, would be a perfect match
for Freddy the Pervert—and we laugh and commiserate about the ridiculousness of middle-aged dating.
It’s easy to talk to Miles. I should’ve crossed off Find a friend the second I met him.
Well, maybe not the exact second, but not long after. I suppose I wasn’t expecting a good-looking man to become my actual friend.
Miles starts to slow down on Lincoln Avenue, another area of the city that is reminiscent of a small town. On either side
of the street, there are shops and restaurants, some chains, some local stores—hidden charm among the mirrored sleekness of
the Chicago skyline.
“There’s the restaurant,” Miles says, leaning down to look through the windshield, pointing at a space with a black awning.
“Looks like Greg and Daphne are already there,” I say as we pass by in search of a parking spot.
Eventually, Miles finds one at the opposite end of the street. We park and get out, then meet on the sidewalk in front of
the SUV.
“It’s weird we’re showing up together for dates with other people,” I say.
“Do you want me to wait so we can pretend you didn’t ride with me?”
I laugh, but when I look at him, I’m pretty sure my expression suggests that this might be a good idea.
“Okay, I’ll run across the street. It’ll look like I came from a completely different place.”
“This is so stupid.” I laugh. “But okay.”
He grins, happy to keep up this charade, even though explaining to our dates that we’re neighbors would really not be that
big of a deal.
“I just don’t want them to feel awkward,” I say.
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “You like this guy.”
I press my lips together. “He’s nice. And he’s normal. Which is a huge improvement.”
He smirks then. “Got it.” He points to the other side of the street and then, in mock-spy fashion, puts fingers on his watch.
“Synchronizing. I’m assuming the position. On my mark.”
I shake my head, smiling. “She’s either going to love you or hate you.”
“Engage.” He crouches, darts his head both ways, then crosses the street.
What a goof.
But I still watch him as he crosses.
After he makes it to the other side, he gives me two thumbs-up, and I start walking toward the restaurant, hoping that Greg
and Daphne aren’t awkwardly waiting. But as I approach, it’s obvious they don’t feel awkward at all. They’re laughing and
chatting, and they look perfectly at ease.
Which is a good thing because it would be doubly weird if our dates didn’t get along.
“Hi!” I say as I reach them.
Greg spots me and steps away from Daphne. “Claire, hi!” He goes in to kiss my cheek, leaving a wet blob behind. “We were just
talking about pickleball.”
“Oh, fun,” I say, trying to think of an inconspicuous way to wipe his slobber off my face.
“There’s Miles!” Daphne waves, and I follow her gaze to the street, where I see Miles crossing toward us, trying to tell myself
that the slobber is a fluke and not at all an indication of how Greg might be as a kisser.
“Hey, guys! Hope you weren’t waiting too long,” Miles says with a quick glance at me. “Took me a minute to find a place to park.”
“Oh, I got a spot right at the end of the block,” I say with a smile.
Miles raises an eyebrow, and Daphne loops her arm through his and pulls him toward the door.
“It’s going to start soon,” she says. “I’ve been dying to do one of these classes! I am terrible in the kitchen. Making drinks? Totally fine. Making dinner? Eh.” She pulls a face.
“I just wish we weren’t doing sushi. I don’t think I’m ever going to want to make sushi at home.”
Miles tosses me a look as Daphne pulls him inside the restaurant, and Greg takes the door and politely ushers me through.
Once we’re inside, I pause to look around the space. The front, near the windows facing the street, is a retail space with
shelves of cooking gadgets and books and special sauces and pans.
Beyond that, toward the back of the space, is a large counter that stretches parallel to what looks a lot like the kitchen
in any home. There are tables scattered throughout the space, and a well-stocked bar.
A man with a long black apron welcomes us and leads us back to the long counter where the class is held.
We get situated near the end of the counter, putting Miles and Daphne perpendicular to Greg and me. We each put on a white
apron, and the class begins.
Daphne grabs Miles’s arm, looking at the portioned ingredients on the counter. “Actually . . . can I just watch?” She winces.
“I don’t like to touch raw meat.”
“Uh, sure,” Miles says.
“You can make mine.” She scrunches her nose in what I think is supposed to be a cute expression, and if Miles is annoyed,
he doesn’t let on, giving me a peek into how his easygoing personality plays out when he’s around other people.
We listen as a man who introduces himself as Chef Mario explains the steps we need to take to turn the ingredients on the counter into “gorgeous sushi rolls.”
Miles becomes Daphne’s line cook as she points to the things she wants in her roll, and she watches, sipping wine and touching
him.
A lot. There’s a lot of touching.
Greg is very focused as he follows each of the chef’s instructions precisely, determined to have “the best sushi roll in the
class,” an accolade that I’m pretty sure would go to Miles if it were a real thing.
He doesn’t seem to need any instruction from the chef, moving around the counter with the same ease he seems to carry into
every situation—even the ones that might be unfamiliar.
I envy him that.
Thankfully, unlike on the pickleball court, I also know my way around the kitchen, and when we’re finished and I present what
I think is a pretty perfect sushi roll, Greg makes a face.
“Ah, nuts, yours is better than mine.” He says this lightly, just as self-effacing as he was on the pickleball court. It’s
refreshing.
“Ooh, yeah, buddy. She’s got you there,” Miles teases, rubbing it in with an amused grin.
Greg turns to me and smiles. “Had fun, though. How about you?”
“So far, yeah,” I admit, and I am. It’s not terrible.
For once.
“Let’s sit down so we can eat!” Daphne picks up the plate Miles made (to her specifications, of course) and leads our little
group over to a four-top table near the front of the space. The room fills with chatter as the other students all prepare
to sample what they’ve made.
We sit, and Greg pulls out his phone.
“I’m so sorry, I have to check on my babies,” he says.