Miller
“Miller,” she cried, popping up from her desk as she wrapped her arms around me. Her rolling chair pushed back with enough force to hit the wall in her tiny, shared office, and I couldn’t help the smile that covered my features.
I’d never tire of seeing her smile.
“Oof.” The wind was knocked out of me with the force of her hug, but I took the hit like a man and definitely didn’t take two steps backward, almost falling on my ass. Her shoulders shook with laughter, but she had the grace to save my dignity and not mention that a one-hundred-and-twenty-something-pound girl almost knocked me down.
She wore a gray pencil skirt that ended right above her knees with tiny black heels and a soft pink cardigan. Her hair was done in one long braid that fell over her left shoulder, and I had to remind myself where we were before I fisted those locks to drag her to my lips.
I had learned early on with Emma that being her friend required you to be comfortable with physical affection. She had a hit-you-in-the-face kind of affection, dragging you into her little bubble and wrapping her arms around you tighter than a boa constrictor. If you weren’t careful, she could knock you down with the force of her hugs.
And I loved every second of it.
There was no reason for me to be here today other than wanting to see her and wanting to feel that squishy, off-kilter way when she turned her attention toward me. She was my drug—and my body craved another hit of her sweet peach scent. She had this way about her—nothing I could ever pinpoint, but something important enough to know I’d never be the same if she left.
Did I care stopping here would mean I’d have a late night at the office? Nope.
Was I bothered that I’d miss dinner and have to eat whatever leftover was in the fridge? Not a bit.
I buried my face in her neck, nuzzling the skin along her pulse point until she giggled and pushed me away.
“What are you doing here? I’m sorry I flaked on our plans, but this filing won’t finish itself. I feel like Mrs. Dawlish has a personal vendetta against me.”
This crease appeared between her eyes as she pushed away, shaking her head.
“Nah. I’m sure she’s just one of those types who gets off on bossing people around. That’s why I thought I’d come by with offers of carbohydrates and sugar,” I said, holding up the bag of take-out food she neglected to notice in my hand.
“Oh, heck yes. You brought me dinner? Enough for two, right?”
“Nah. Just enough for me. Thought I’d rub it in your face that I was done working before five o’clock while you were stuck in this empty office doing mundane filing or some other shit that is well below your pay grade.”
She hit me, not too gently, in the stomach.
“Ugh,” I said in a manly, growly tone—and not like all the air whooshed out of my lungs in some high-pitched squeal. “I’ll take everything you give me, Em. Even a jab to the sternum.”
“You’re ridiculous.”
“Absolutely, but take it easy or I’ll eat all the Gulab Jamun myself.”
She rubbed the spot apologetically, then, like she couldn’t help herself, her hand glided down my side and she pinched the fluff around my middle. I made another very masculine sound, grinning as she laughed. Her warm, soft hands felt ridiculously good, even if they were pinching me, and I had to hold back a groan.
“You brought me Gulab Jamun?” she asked, moving to grab the bag dangling from my fingers.
“And Tandoori Chicken, but only if you’re nice to me.” I huffed, putting one arm across my chest and rubbing my stomach like I was angry at her for daring to assault my delicate sensibilities. She rolled her eyes and took the bag from my hand, motioning to the small table in the corner of her office and closing her door so it was left open just a crack.
The area was spartan, with two large oak desks pushed against opposite walls and a matching round table with three chairs between them. Papers cluttered the desk Em rose from when I entered her space, and no fewer than four pencils with bright plastic flowers taped to the top, lay scattered in various places. It screamed “her”—from the framed pictures of her friends adorning the desk to her various degrees and awards hanging on the wall.
“I had to bribe Mrs. Bella at the front desk—who was on her way home, by the way—with those gourmet cookies from the bakery by the office to get her to let me back here after hours, and you’re using me like your very own punching bag.”
“Shut up. You love it,” she said, rolling her eyes and rubbing her hands together. She licked her lips and removed containers from the bag to arrange them family-style on the table. Em was a sharer—in every sense of the word. From sharing her affection to sharing her food. She saw any meal as an open invitation to try a bite of every plate, always offering her own in trade.
I gave up fighting it years ago, knowing the smile covering her features was worth any lingering hunger pains I suffered at the hands of her sharing. Before sitting down, her hand darted out, gripping my shoulder and pulling me close. I returned her embrace, basking in her warmth.
I’d always had a sixth sense as to when she’d fling herself into my arms, almost like the miniature dachshund Mom used to have—tail wag and all. Being the sole focus of her attention was intense, but also heart-wrenchingly fantastic. If I had to suffer through losing my balance and getting a bruise a time or two—well, there were far worse things out there.
“So, what prompted this visit, really, Miller?” she asked, taking a large bite of the spicy chicken dish. I shrugged, taking a samosa and dipping it into the flavored sauce on my plate. “It can’t be because I canceled a pizza date for work.”
“Nope. I’m used to how consuming your job is. I’m simply curious about your date with Mr. Right. How you managed to keep me in the dark for this long is a miracle.”
“Um. It’s been what? Three days?”
“Four, actually, and I am absolutely appalled.” I stuffed the rest of the samosa in my mouth and put my hand across my forehead, sighing dramatically as she giggled around another bite of chicken.
“Ugh. I’ve already relived that awful night with the girls, could you at least let it go if I said it was an absolute disaster?”
“Really? That’s a shame. Maybe my guy-dar is malfunctioning. Give me your phone.” I motioned for her to hand it over, but she stalled.
“Your what?”
“My guy-dar. You know, my natural ability to sniff out a good match for you. Maybe it’s malfunctioning.”
“Maybe I should pick my next date without your input.”
“I am offended, and now demand your phone to make up for my poor performance. If you are still going through with this nonsense, the least I can do is support you. What else are friends for, babe?”
“Nonsense?” she said, popping up from the chair with her hands on her hips.
Shit.
“Nope. Not at all. Never mind. Great idea. Brilliant, actually. Putting your future into the hands of an algorithm.” I held my hands up in surrender, fork dangling from my lips as she huffed, boring her eyes into mine in a way that would make lesser men quake.
“Just because I’m taking control of my life and you’re content to flounder about doesn’t give you the right to make me feel bad,” she snapped, snatching the last piece of naan from the table.
Flounder? Is that how she saw me?
Fuck.
“I’m not floundering, just happy where I am. I thought you were as well. I thought, Em, that you were happy with your life. Now, come on. Please,” I said, not liking the blush that crept up her neck and the tightness of her brow. “I’ll find someone tall and athletic and even make sure he has all of his teeth.”
“Ugh. Fine.” She handed over her phone, sat back down, and reached for the dessert. “But it’s just because you brought me sugar.”
“Whatever you say, babe.”
“Hey, man. Thanks for meeting me,” Simon said, tugging on the top button of his black button-down shirt and sitting beside me at the bar. The bartender set a coaster in front of him, but before she could ask for an order or share the specials, Simon cut her off with his gruff tone.
“Bombay martini. Extra dry. Two olives. And make it a double.”
I was used to his brashness, but the stilted way he moved and the tightness around his eyes said something serious had happened—more than just his personality quirks.
“Sure. Um. What’s going on? Not that I’m not glad you texted, but this is what? Only the second time we’ve had a drink together?”
“The third. And I’m flattered, Miller. Truly,” he deadpanned, running a hand through his white-blond hair and resting his chin on the arm propped against the bar top. “I need advice, and you’re the sensible one to talk to.”
“I’m sorry? Did you say I’m the sensible one? Could I get that in writing?”
“Perhaps your mother could make a tea towel with those words embroidered for you?” he said, cracking his knuckles and arching a brow.
“Just for that, I’ll make sure she knows how much you loved my Christmas sweater last year. I distinctly remember her saying you needed more color in your life.”
He dramatically rolled his eyes as the bartender set his drink down, nodding his thanks. The knuckles on his left hand were white with how hard he gripped the glass stem as he brought it to his lips and downed the liquid in one swallow.
Damn, dude.
“Anyway,” he said, running his hand through his hair again. “Sensible, perhaps. Only option? Yes. Mark and Magnum are shit with keeping things to themselves, and Maverick has been more out of sorts than normal.”
“Okay.” I let the word hang in the air, hoping he’d fill the silence and stop the cloak-and-dagger shit. Not that I had anything going on with Emma after dinner, but I didn’t want to spend a perfectly good evening playing twenty questions.
“Damn it. Listen. No. Just look.” He popped the olives in his mouth and pushed the glass to the edge of the bar before reaching into the pocket of his slacks and pulling out a velvet box.
Oh. Oh.
That black ring box was like a ticking time bomb between us, and I felt woefully unprepared to help with whatever crisis he was having.
“My grandmother gave this to me. It’s a family heirloom meant to adorn the finger of the woman I intend to marry.”
Adorn the finger? Fuck. This is out of my league.
“That’s Addison, of course. I love her so fucking much. The first time we touched, I knew she was meant to be mine. She’s my everything, Miller. Nothing matters without her.”
He signaled for another drink, and I did the same, finishing the last dregs of my beer. What was I supposed to say to him? Profess some profound knowledge about the mysteries of the universe, with love being the answer to the ultimate question? Or did he expect me to sit here and nurse a beer while he spouted sonnets about Addison and asked me the logistics behind renting out albino peacocks to spell ‘Will you marry me’ in the park one crisp spring evening?
“I’ve heard that you only fall madly in love once,” he continued like I wasn’t there, panicking at what my role in this conversation was supposed to be. “But I can’t believe that—not when I fall in love with her all over again every day.”
“It’s good that you know it’s her,” I said, rubbing the back of my neck. “You’ve been together, for what? A year? Definitely longer than Magnum and Brooke. I wish I was that confident about anything in my life.”
I scoffed. This was about him, not whatever my mind conjured after Indian food and beer. Still, the confidence he had in his love for Addison triggered something inside of me. I rubbed my knuckles over my chest to alleviate the feeling, but that only made it worse.
“Yeah. Something like that, but I’m no good for her.”
My head jerked from staring at the condensation dripping down my beer glass to him, swirling the olives around in his second martini with a look of utter devastation across his sharp features. He and Addison were stupidly perfect for each other. She smoothed his rough edges, and he held her up so she could fly.
Damn it. Now I’m a bloody poet.
“No good for her? Gotta disagree with you on that one.” I shook my head and took a large gulp of my beer, letting the hops burn my tongue.
“When you first onboarded with us, you barely spoke two words that weren’t work related. You were closed off and basically an asshole.”
“I knew you were the right person to text, Miller,” he said, not bothering to hide the irritation dripping from his voice.
“Shut up. That’s not what I meant, and you know it. Remember, you’re the one who has apparent trust issues with my brothers and chose to text me. So, now you’re stuck.”
“I need another drink,” he said, tossing the sword that held the olives back into the empty glass.
“What you need is to not get pissed while I try to impart wisdom.”
I pulled his glass toward me and ordered him a water and buffalo wings. My stomach might rebel after the Indian food, but Simon needed something to soak up the gin, and I was nothing if not a considerate friend—even if I was a last resort.
“Impart wisdom?”
“Shut up, dick. If you can use big phrases, so can I. Just listen.”
I scrubbed my hand over my face and drank deeply, rolling my eyes as he unbuttoned his cufflinks and rolled his sleeves to the elbow.
“I think you’re having whatever this is—” I waved my hand in front of him, and he batted it away, shaking his head, “—because you’re worried about labels.”
“Labels?” he croaked, looking a little green. Perhaps I should have ordered nachos; one would think those wouldn’t take as long to make as wings.
“Yeah. Labels. You know? Marriage. Husband. Wife. Labels.”
He nodded, giving me a minuscule amount of confidence that I wouldn’t fuck this up and ruin his life.
I thought about my parents—and how in love they were. Not because of outlandish gestures—though my dad always went a little crazy around their anniversary—but because of the little things they did for one another. From fixing Mom’s coffee in the morning to her making sure Dad had a steady supply of Butterfingers in his toolbox.
Simon needed reassurance, and from the little I knew about his immediate family—they were all royal assholes. Reassurance, I could do. Not from my own experience but from the example I grew up admiring.
“I remember back before my dad died, he pulled the four of us boys aside in the hospital. Maverick snuck in a bottle of twenty-five-year-old whiskey, and the nurses turned a blind eye. He told us that the purest form of love is not how you feel about someone, but how you treat them. And I see how she treats you, Simon.”
Simon swiveled on the bar stool and tilted his head before reaching for his water and chugging the glass. More than half my beer sat untouched as the bartender set the wings between us. I dunked a celery stick in the blue cheese and pushed the plate toward him, taking his silence to mean he was still on the fence about my sanity.
“He said real love has little to do with falling. There can’t be love without first having commitment, loyalty, patience, and persistence.”
A crease appeared between his brows, and he tugged on his collar again, finally releasing the top two buttons, yanking his black tie off, and stuffing it into the pocket of his slacks. He looked to be on the verge of a panic attack; I recognized the signs from Maverick. He clenched his fists and a bead of sweat formed on his temple.
Fuck.
“She deserves someone better than me. Someone—”
“Stop. Simon.” I grasped his shoulder and squeezed hard. “You’ve become a better man with her. The two of you together, that’s love. Patience. Honesty. Forget everything else except one simple question. Do you want her forever?”
His eyes widened, and for a moment, an image of Emma flashed before my eyes. Her hand was against my jaw and the other around my waist. Pulling us tightly together until our lips touched in a playful sort of kissing. Something that involved stroking and nipping and the suggestion of hidden depths—an offer of the delicious things to come.
What?
Simon was on the verge of some sort of life, love, forever crisis, and all I could think about was Emma.
“I want her forever,” he said, placing his hand over the velvet box. His words had a sincerity that made my chest ache. Why? Great question—but the way he oozed confidence, coming back from the brink of panic to realize Addison was forever, was… Something. Perhaps I should text Emma.
Nope. Why was that my first thought?
“Then that’s all that matters,” I said, clapping him on the shoulder and pushing thoughts of my honeyed-blonde girl straight out of my head. “You’re a better person with her in your life, and you respect her enough to want the absolute best for her, which for some damn reason, you don’t think is you.”
“Yeah. I guess.”
“Don’t guess. You know I’m right,” I said, smiling and giving him as much of a bow as I could from the high-top chairs.
“So, she won’t laugh in my face if I propose?” His voice was cracking and quiet, betraying the confidence of his earlier realization.
“Not at all. Unless the proposal is balls, but even then, she loves you enough to overlook it.”
“Fuck,” he said, tugging on another button on his shirt. “Now I have to plan a proposal.”
“That’s easy. Between your fancy words and poshness, you’ll have it figured out in a half-hour.”
“Poshness?”
“Yes. Poshness. You know. Your uppity attitude about practically everything. Just spout romantic words to her, with your expensive cufflinks and refusal to wear jeans, and she won’t even think about turning you down.”
“I’m starting to understand why your manners are so abysmal if you think my attitude is uppity.”
“Oh, Addison,” I said, with a large amount of dramatic flair and placing my hand over my heart. “I crave your caress. Not a second goes by without thinking about you. My heart and everlasting love are yours.”
“Dick,” he said, chuckling as I batted my eyelashes and fanned my face. “I do not sound like that.”
“Prick, and yes, you do.”
“Miller?”
“Yeah?”
“Thank you.”