Chapter 21
It has taken a considerable amount of effort to put Miles—and that kiss—out of my mind. It’s stuck on a mental loop, replaying
over and over.
If I close my eyes, I can still feel his lips on mine, even now, days later.
I’m determined to be as normal as possible with him. To put things back the way they were and pretend that I’m completely
unaffected by all of it.
That’s a lot of pretending. And I’m not a good actor.
The memory of it blindsides me when I’m not expecting it. Pouring cream in my coffee—oh! There are Miles’s lips. Sprinkling
salt on my eggs, and . . . his hands are on my face. Up to use the bathroom in the middle of the night—and there he is, looking
at me like if he doesn’t close the gap between us he might actually pass out.
Which is why the knock on my door Saturday morning, almost a full week after the kiss, is like a speed bump for my heart.
I’m standing in the kitchen barefoot, holding a coffee carafe filled with water that’s about to get the glow-up of a lifetime,
and at the sound of it, I stare at the door.
Another knock.
I meant what I said. I don’t want to lose his friendship. It’s not a big deal. It was a kiss. Kisses happen all the time.
Only . . . they don’t happen to me.
It’s not a thing. Don’t make it a thing.
I pull open the door and smile a little too big. Paint me purple because I might as well be the Cheshire Cat.
I force my face to calm the heck down.
“Good morning,” I say.
“You’ve been avoiding me.”
“I have not,” I say, even though we both know I totally have been.
He studies me for a beat, and it’s enough of a pause to trigger my overwhelming need to fill the space.
“Okay, maybe I have,” I admit. “But I don’t want things to be weird.” I step aside to let him in. I do this without thinking—it’s
almost like muscle memory at this point.
“Then don’t make things weird.” He steps into my apartment, the same way he’s done so many other times. Only this time . . .
it’s different.
Because he kissed me.
And I kissed him back.
And there is a very real part of me that wants to do it again.
“I don’t think we need to talk about it,” I say, meeting him in my kitchen. “Do we?”
He shrugs. “I mean, if you don’t want . . .”
I overlap him with, “I’m not sure it’s . . .”
We both stop. And smile.
“We’re adults,” I say. “Why is this so difficult? Can we just be adults about it?”
He nods. “I agree. Adults it is.”
“It’s just—” I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “It is kind of a big deal. Like . . . it’s kind of monumental for
me.”
“Kissing?”
“Yes. Do you know the last time I kissed someone other than John?”
He smirks. “Is this you not talking about it?”
I make a face, pick up my water bottle, and take a drink.
I don’t intend to voice all the things I’ve been thinking since that kiss happened.
But I have had lots of thoughts. It’s different than it was for me in my twenties.
There’s so much more at stake. I’m not interested in casual.
I wasn’t even looking for anything until Minnie signed me up with Matched.
Along with the typical swoopy, swoony feelings, there is also a certain amount of pragmatism. I just can’t afford to start
over, pour out feelings just to get them stepped on again.
I know what’s at stake here.
“That was my first postdivorce kiss,” I say. “You are the first man I’ve kissed who isn’t John in over twenty years.”
He doesn’t say anything.
“I have no idea what I’m doing in that area. Baking? Easy. Kissing? Romance? Who knows? Was it good? Did you enjoy it?” I
feel my face heat as soon as those words are hanging in the air between us.
He cocks his head and smiles, looking like he’s holding back a laugh. I pull a face. “Wait. Why aren’t you saying anything?”
He chuckles. “I’m just enjoying this moment.”
“Wait,” I say. “Was it . . . okay?”
His eyes widen. “The kiss?”
“Yeah.”
“You want my opinion?”
Oof. Maybe I don’t. He’s probably kissed lots of women.
He leans against the counter and crosses his arms over his chest. “I think I’d need to do it again to know for sure.”
I shoot him a look, then chuck a kitchen towel at his head. He catches it, his casual smile hanging loose on his lips.
I match his posture, leaning on the counter opposite him and crossing my arms over my chest. “So?”
He stares back. “So what?”
“Kissing feedback?” I prompt.
His eyes narrow. “For not wanting to talk about the kiss, you sure are bringing it up a lot.” His gaze falls to my lips, and my heart sputters.
The assault on my senses intensifies as I remember every single second of that kiss.
As I chew on my bottom lip, Miles’s focus zeroes in on the movement, and I have to wonder if he’s remembering it too.
“I just think it could be informative,” I say, eyes fixed on his.
“Informative,” he repeats, taking a step closer.
“Educational,” I say, still holding his gaze.
“Oh, educational, for sure.” Another step coupled with the slight rise of his eyebrows.
“Are you going to repeat everything I say?” I ask, exasperated.
He’s standing mere inches away from me now, and there’s nowhere else for me to go.
“Maybe.”
I lift my chin and find him watching me, cool and calm as ever, and it’s the exact reminder I need that Miles is accomplished
at this. He does this all the time. He makes women feel things so he can get what he wants—casual, easy, no strings attached.
And that’s not me.
He’s dangerously close to me again. So close that if I wanted to, in just a simple move, I could be back in his arms.
“Claire,” he says softly. “You do not need any help in the kissing department.” His eyes turn serious. “Any guy who gets to
kiss you is very, very lucky.”
When I swallow, I wonder if he can hear a cartoon sound effect. Gulp.
I’m frozen for a few seconds, and then I find my voice again. “You’re just saying that.” I give him a playful shove, but there’s
no trace of amusement behind his eyes.
“I promise I’m not,” he says.
I resist the urge to ask him to go into detail as the air thickens between us, but if we keep talking about it, it’s going
to happen again.
It cannot happen again.
I clear my throat, hoping to cut the tension. “Well, thank you.”
He gives me a quick nod and steps back a bit, as if to say, “You’re welcome,” and I realize broaching this topic with him was a little like stepping on a hornets’ nest.
“Now . . . we’ll never talk about it again,” I say.
“You got it.”
“We’re good.”
“Totally.”
Thankfully, the moment passes, and things get a bit less electrically charged.
I take a breath, noting my own hesitation at what I’m about to say. “I . . . um . . . I have a date. Today.”
It feels weird to say it. Miles and I aren’t dating, so why does it feel like I’m betraying him a little?
“A date?” His demeanor changes slightly and his jaw twitches. “I thought you were on a dating app pause.”
“It’s not through the app,” I say. “It’s Duffy, the dentist that found me through Lorraine’s video.”
“Oh, you’re doing that.”
I shrug. “He seems really nice.”
In the three text exchanges we’ve had, that is.
Miles nods. “Okay.”
“We’re going to the zoo.” As if this is proof that he’s a good guy.
“He’s taking you to the zoo,” he says.
“It was my idea, Mr. Judgy,” I say, feeling personally offended. “I love the zoo.”
He nods again, and I can’t read his expression. “Okay.”
“We’ll get food or something too, probably.” I hear myself saying the words, but I’m having trouble figuring out why I’m saying
them.
“Were you asking about kissing because you’re planning on kissing this dentist?” he asks.
I open the refrigerator and pull out a carton of coffee creamer. “No, but . . . it’s not as scary to imagine as it was before.”
I close the fridge. “Thanks to you.”
He looks slighted. “Wow. Glad I could help.”
His tone is off. I’m not sure what I said.
I grin, trying to lighten things. “It’s nice of you to use your powers for good.”
He frowns, still seeming put off. “What do you mean?”
I pull the coffee beans out of the cupboard and measure them into the grinder. “You know . . . you’ve dated a lot—probably all kinds of different women—and in this case, it paid off.” I glance over at him and see that his frown has deepened.
“What?”
“That’s not what I do,” he says, like he’s trying to make sense of my comment.
I laugh. “Miles, you go out with women all the time.”
“Not as often as you think,” he says.
“But enough,” I say, confused. Does he not want to admit this? What am I missing? “You tell them you’re not looking for anything
serious. They inevitably think they can change you. You spend some time with them and, I don’t know, just move on after a
while. Right? You told me yourself you’re not interested in long-term stuff.” I chuckle, but the mood has gone sour. He’s
back to leaning on the counter. He’s gone from casual to rigid, the frown still firmly in place.
I freeze. “What? What did I say?”
“Uh, nothing. Just your take on me is . . . interesting.”
I set the coffee beans down. “Miles. Come on. You’re anti-relationship but not anti-dating. It’s pretty easy to fill in the
blanks.”
He nods slowly, considering.
I look at the coffee on the counter, then back at him. “Wait, did you want to go on a coffee walk?”
He pushes himself up to standing and shoves his hands in his pockets. “Uh, no. I actually have some work to do today. The
playground project—it needs a little oversight.”
“I’d love to see it,” I say. “Just, you know, whenever.”
“Yep.” He starts for the door, and before I can say anything, he’s opened it and walked out.