Chapter 25
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
If Miles still liked her after she quoted practically every line of the movie while the characters on the screen spoke them, it would be a miracle, but she loved hearing his rough chuckle when she pitched her voice high and mimicked, “I’m not a witch, I’m your wife,” or when she used her heinous Spanish accent to say the “My name is Inigo Montoya” line.
The space between them shrank as darkness fell and a damp chill lifted off the river.
Maybe long sleeves had been the smart choice, after all.
Fortunately, she’d found a quilted jacket in the back of Miles’s car as they waited for the film to begin.
Now, they huddled under it while Nix lay across both their legs like a heated blanket, anchoring both of them in place.
Miles had rolled the edge of the picnic blanket and propped it against the cooler to provide a makeshift pillow, but Jif’s head rested on his shoulder, his arm slung around her, yet another effort to ward off the cold.
His fingertips traced absent-minded designs on her shoulder, and the goosebumps racing across her skin might have been from the temperature, but she preferred to believe his touch elicited them.
The weather hadn’t quite turned enough, yet, for a movie in the park, but that didn’t stop the many families dotting the lawn. Perhaps the Parks Department had chosen such an iconic film in a transparent bid to bring them out, despite the way the chill crept in as soon as the sun went down.
Jif gritted her teeth as another tremor delicately wracked her body. There were only a few minutes left, and this was her favorite scene, so she wouldn’t admit the weather had defeated her quite yet.
No, these shivers came from the delicious juxtaposition of Miles’s warmth along one side of her, the scant protection of his jacket tucked in on the other, sealing her to his side.
“Wait, there isn’t even a swordfight at the end?” Miles’s words ghosted over her ear, his lips nearly brushing the shell and sending pooling heat to her core.
“Do you need another one?” she whispered in return. She resisted the urge to press her lips to his skin, his intoxicating, masculine scent overwhelming her senses. She wanted to trace his collarbone with her tongue.
He shrugged, jostling her head on his shoulder, and she settled for snuggling her nose deeper into the crook of his neck, searching for warmth. “Guess not.”
“Shh, I love this part.”
On the screen, lying on the bed and with nothing but his wits and determination, Westley defeated Prince Humperdinck and left him tied to a chair.
Served him right, the jerk.
Beside her, Miles stiffened as Westley collapsed, Buttercup scrambling to help him.
If she could read his mind, what would she find?
The film finished, and they sat up, joining the throng of people gathering their blankets and coolers, collecting their garbage, and making their slow way up the hill with children and dogs in tow.
Miles kept quiet, but not uncharacteristically so. Whether introspectively or by nature, she couldn’t quite pinpoint.
His weight shifted unevenly as they walked, his limp more pronounced, so she slowed her pace. He held the cooler while she tucked the blanket under her arm and took Nix’s leash, but the dog paced beside his master.
Jif thought she heard Miles groan, but when she glanced at him, no expression betrayed his pain.
“You okay? We can stop...”
“I’m fine.”
His growl stabbed her heart.
She wanted to help.
She didn’t know how.
They made it back to the car in silence, but this time she didn’t miss his hiss as he slid into the driver’s seat. He revved the engine, then jacked the heat all the way up.
Jif’s teeth chattered, almost colder now, with the warm air blowing over her chapped and chilled skin than she’d been in the park. The hum of the vent filled the space, still silent for several minutes before Miles shifted.
“Sorry. Everything gets stiff when I get cold. I’m better now. How are you?”
“Warmer.” Jif still shivered, but Miles wasn’t angry with her. The realization sent a wave of relief through her body, relaxing the tense muscles.
Instead of driving, Miles left the heater on high and reached for her hand. “I enjoyed the movie. Tell me why you love it so much?”
“Who said I loved it?” Jif arched an eyebrow at him teasingly.
“No one memorizes every line of a movie if they haven’t watched it a hundred times, and no one watches it a hundred times if they don’t love it.”
“Actually, my mom loved it,” Jif corrected.
“Every time it came on TV, she’d refuse to change the channel.
After my dad left... Well, she’s always believed in fairy-tale happily-ever-afters.
She’s never stopped hoping he’ll come back.
I think she loved this movie because it represented hope: the person who loved her, then left, would find a way to come home. ”
“But why do you love it?”
Miles, ever-observant, never missed her tacit avoidance, always cutting to the heart of the question, whether she wanted to or not.
Jif wasn’t sure how much she appreciated that particular talent as he patiently awaited her answer. Her conflicted memories ran the gamut from happy to sad to downright resentful.
“It always makes me laugh, I guess.” She paused, unsure if she could share the real reason. But, of course, she could. She trusted Miles. “And I like the idea of changing your name and, along with it, changing your whole life.”
She didn’t meet his gaze, but she couldn’t escape the weight of it, either.
“You said you were named for your grandmother?”
She hummed, chafing her hands together.
“Your dad’s...” he trailed off. “Oh, I understand. Have you considered changing your name? Legally, I mean.”
More times than she could count.
Miles remained silent.
Finally, Jif admitted, “Even if I changed my first name, I’d have to keep my last—my mom never went back to her maiden name—so, either way, he’s imprinted on my identity.”
“Identity is more than your name.”
Jif Porter.
The thought struck her like a bolt of lightning, like a Hail Mary pass caught at the two-yard line with seconds left on the clock. If she got married, she’d be done with her father’s name for good.
Eager to turn the attention away from such a sensitive topic, Jif ignored his comment. “And, I mean, who doesn’t love the idea of true love conquering all? Of finding your prince and living happily ever after?”
“But she doesn’t marry the prince.” He didn’t match the forced normalcy of her tone, keeping his voice low and serious.
Jif chewed her lip, pondering the truth of his point. Westley, a poor farm boy, wasn’t a prince at all, and the real prince had turned out to be the villain. As she parsed how the metaphor might be even more apt, she teased, “Well, he’s like a pirate-prince, isn’t he?”
Miles snorted, one corner of his mouth pulling up slightly. On anyone else, it would be a full-out grin. “Yeah, I suppose he is.”
She shifted in her seat, ready to change the trajectory of the conversation, unwilling to unpack what Miles’s incisive observation could mean. “Did you have a favorite part?”
“I liked the part in the swamp where he puts out the fire on her skirt.”
“You’re kidding!”
“Not at all.” His earnest expression turned enthusiastic as he spoke. “He did it exactly right. Usually, the movies get firefighting all wrong. It made for a nice change. Also, the sword fight.”
“Of course you did.” Jif flicked her hair over her shoulder, then pulled a lock forward to twine around her finger as Miles’s eyes zeroed in on the action. She glanced down, then back up, catching his gaze through her lashes.
He cleared his throat, facing forward again, and finally put the car into reverse, pulling out of the parking space in the now-deserted lot.
Disappointed, Jif twined her fingers together. She hadn’t thought Miles would stay the night after a first date, but she’d at least hoped for a kiss. Then again, they hadn’t arrived home quite yet.
Maybe he believed in a classic goodnight kiss, a true traditionalist.
But when they pulled into her driveway, she realized how much work it would be for him to walk her to the front door, so as he turned the car off, she rested a hand on his arm, holding him in place. “I had a great time tonight. Thank you.”
His brows knit together. “I did, too.”
She leaned forward slightly, but he didn’t match the motion.
Well, then.
She let go of his arm and reached for the door handle, but he caught her hand and twined their fingers together. “I can get it. Give me a second.”
She turned back to him. “You don’t have to...”
He squeezed her hand. “I want to.”
“Really. I don’t mind.” She glanced down at their joined hands, then blurted out, “I hate the thought of you being in more pain because of me.”
The silence settled between them after the statement, then he huffed a short breath. “You’re trying to...spare me?”
She nodded, her cheeks heating.
“I’m not broken.”