Chapter 33
Friday morning, I grab my bag and open my apartment door, stopping short when I find Miles sitting in the courtyard facing
my apartment. He stands.
“Are you stalking me?” I ask.
“Yep.” He grins.
I frown and hold up my phone. “Do you have one of these?”
“If I called you, I wouldn’t get to see your face.”
I bite back a smile. “Is this how you’re going to be? Totally sappy?”
“One hundred percent.” He sticks his hands in his pockets and grins. “Coffee walk to start your day?”
“I was going to get coffee on the way in, so I suppose you can tag along.”
“Can I hold your hand?”
“Do you want to carry my books too? Write ‘TLA’ in my yearbook?”
He laughs. “That’s a deep cut. I may as well tell you to keep in touch over the summer.”
The comment makes me wonder what Miles was like when he was younger, and I realize I want to know. I want to know all of his
stories and share all of mine.
“Are you nervous?” he asks.
I nod. “I am. I feel like I have a lot to prove.”
“You’re going to be amazing. You’re ready, Claire,” he says.
“I hope so. I tasted everything twice. Made more than I need. I checked the sugar before I poured it in every single time
I used it.” My laugh is nervous.
“I think it’s going to make a great story on the back of your menus ten years from now,” he says.
I glance over, thinking about the night we met. Me in my alien face mask and him with his casual charm. I think about the
way he’d said, “When people ask us how we met, I’ll tell them the story of the half-naked woman stalking me in the bushes.”
I’d been so sure nobody would ever ask me that question.
I’d been so sure of so many things I’m not sure of anymore. In the very best way.
We stop off at a coffee truck and Miles orders my coffee without asking what I want. “I’d order something to eat, but I’m
fully expecting to raid your stash when we get to The Porch.”
“Hmm. I’ll consider it.” I take my cup from him, then lead us away from the truck and down the street on the now-familiar
route to the bakery.
“I want one of the scones,” he says. “And maybe a lemon bar—did you make lemon bars?”
“So this is why you’re coming with me,” I say, teasing. “I’m just the food lady.”
“Eh.” He shrugs as if to suggest he agrees.
I smack him, and he apologizes. “I’m coming with you because I want to show you something.” He takes a drink of his coffee.
“Something on the way to the bakery?” I ask.
“More like something at the bakery.” He doesn’t look at me, but I can see him smiling.
I eye him for a few seconds, but he keeps his gaze focused ahead. “What did you do?”
The smile widens. “You’ll see.”
Excitement bubbles up inside me, though I have no idea why. I was literally at the bakery last night, and I didn’t notice
anything out of the ordinary.
I have no idea what he possibly could’ve done . . . only that I can’t wait to find out.
I’ve always loved surprises.
We cross the street and head toward the entrance to The Porch, but instead of going through the front, Miles turns to the
right, then down the alley in the back. Since I walk to the bakery, I go in through the front door, and I’ve only used the
alley entrance when I’ve had a lot of stuff to haul in.
I’ve only been out there maybe four times.
It’s an alley.
I slow my pace as Miles steps to the side, more intent on watching me than where we’re going. I look at him and see anticipation
on his face.
“Miles, what did you—?” I realize as the full area comes into view that while I’ve been baking and organizing and painting
and decorating inside my shop nonstop for days, Miles has been working on turning the exterior of the bakery into a fully
functional—and amazing—extra dining area.
It almost doubles the space.
It adds so much to what we’ve been doing inside, but . . . how did he pull this off?
There’s a stand with “Fresh-Squeezed Lemonade at The Porch” painted on it in my branded colors. There are whimsical, colorful
garlands hanging in swaths over a mix of picnic tables with benches and tall tables for people who prefer to stand. Outdoor
rugs are neatly positioned all around the space, and there are potted outdoor plants of varying sizes that breathe life into
an otherwise drab area. He’s taken a blank, urban, concrete canvas and turned it into something small town, inviting, and
warm.
My favorite part, though, is the sign hanging on the back wall of the building. It reads: The Back Porch.
“The storefront is kind of small.” He steps over to the lemonade stand.
“And I thought it would be cool to have spillover seating for the nice days. You could take orders out here—or not. And there’s”—he walks over to a small area in the corner right up against the building and pulls out a large wooden square—“corn hole.” He picks up a bag of beanbags and shakes it.
“We used to play that on the farm,” I say, doing nothing to keep the wonder out of my voice.
“Didn’t every kid who grew up in the Midwest?” He tucks the board back where it was and walks over to me.
“When did you do all this?” I ask.
“I’ve been working on it off-site,” he says. “At my office. And we installed everything overnight last night after you left.
It’s a small space, but I think we’re maximizing it. I was thinking we—”
I hold up a finger to shush him, turning to set my coffee and bag down, then spin back and throw my arms around him, pulling
him close in a tight hug.
I put my mouth close to his ear and whisper, “Thank you.”
His arms come up around my back, and I feel him settle into the hug.
“You’re welcome,” he whispers back.
We stand like that for a long moment, the sun starting to heat, and I pull back and look at him. “Nobody has ever been this
excited about one of my crazy ideas before.”
“It’s not crazy,” he says, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “It’s going to be incredible. You are incredible.”
I search his eyes for any trace of insincerity—anything to indicate he’s playing an angle here—but I don’t find one. Only
genuine excitement and admiration.
“I should go,” he finally says. “You have work. I have work. Boring adult stuff.”
I smile up at him, looking around at this incredible gift he’s given me. “I really don’t know what to say, Miles.”
His smile goes soft, and he moves toward me, leans down, and kisses me on the cheek.
He pauses there, face pressed to mine, and I close my eyes and inhale a deep breath.
Time seems to stop with the realization that if I turn just a fraction of an inch, we’ll be right back where we were in the kitchen.
But the moment is here and gone in a heartbeat.
When he pulls back and looks at me, heat rushes through my body, and I do everything I can to try to pretend I wasn’t just
thinking about kissing him.
“You were thinking about that kiss,” he says, never one to miss a chance to make me squirm.
“What?” I look away. “I was not.”
“I was.”
My eyes snap to his. “You were?”
He lets out a low laugh. “Uh, yeah. I think about it nonstop.”
I subconsciously press my lips together, then realize I’m doing it to try not to smile. “You do?”
His eyes search mine as the smile falls from his face, a serious expression replacing it. “Yeah, I do.”
The mood shifts, a heavy tension threading the air between us.
“I think about how soft your lips are and how you tasted like strawberry ChapStick,” he says. “And how that kiss woke up something
inside me that I put to sleep a long time ago.” He reaches up and touches my face, fingers sliding down to my neck. And then,
in a simple, casual move, he leans in and brushes the softest, sweetest kiss on my lips. So quick I can barely respond, and
yet, it leaves behind a longing I can’t quite process.
“But today, we both have to work.”
His words are an unwanted wet blanket and a much-needed wake-up call. “Right.”
He smirks, probably knowing that this whole brief encounter made me feel like a walking ball of exposed nerves.
“Have a good day.” He backs away, then turns and walks down the alley, leaving me standing there, stunned at how easy it was
for him to turn me into a gooey mess before nine in the morning.
Imagine if I were with him for a whole twenty-four hours.