7. 7
I”m not sure what”s happening. I may have lost my mind. It fell out of my head when I agreed to do Celebrity Wife and it’s never been found.
All I know is how I feel—and my gut tells me this man is real. He is safe. And I’d really love some alcohol about now.
I follow behind him, my eyes zoning in on the major muscles of his back, the ones his T-shirt seems to hug.
What am I doing? My mother would kill me right now—he’s a stranger. How stupid can you be, Delaney Sage?
Even Ash would shake her head at me—this is reckless. Be smart. There are crazies out there and you have to be smarter than they are.
Eryn would yelp in shock at my behavior. Where’s your pepper spray? It’s in my purse, little sister. Stop your worries.
And while I don’t think Grandma Judy would exactly push me into a car with a stranger offering me liquor—something that will surely mess with my already questionable decision-making ability—she always taught me to listen to my gut. When I left The Judys, it was my gut talking. And while things haven’t been easy since I left, it was the right decision.
My gut screamed at me, telling me not to do Celebrity Wife, and yet I listened to Ash instead.
Mr. Tall, Dark, and Curly doesn’t take me to his vehicle. Though I thought we were in search of a bar. I follow him to a back stairwell. The space has no outside door and no windows. A great place to be murdered. And yet, for the first time today, I feel like I can breathe.
He pauses and turns, those muscles in his back flexing with the movement. Standing on the first stair, he faces me, making himself a full foot taller than my five foot six. He’s already tall, but now he’s looking down at me. “This staircase leads to my home. I don’t want to give you any misinformation. I’m not an assassin and I don’t plan to seduce you. But up this stairway is my personal living quarters.”
My lips quirk up in a grin. “I’m pretty sure an assassin wouldn’t claim to be an assassin.”
He ignores my lame joke, though a hint of a grin plays at his lips. “This is my place and this is where the drinks are—if you still want one. If not, I can show you out. No problem.”
I nod. Swallow. And listen. My insides tell me this is exactly where I want to be. “Let’s go,” I say, pointing up the staircase.
“Okay, then.” He gives one curt nod, then swivels his gaze to the stairs once more. With his hand on the rail, he glances back. “I’m Miles, by the way.”
“Miles,” I say. Even his name is comforting. No Miles ever murdered a rock star in a stairwell. I am certain of it.
He doesn’t ask for my name, and I don’t give it. I’m not sure he knows who I am. I mean, whisking me away from the photographers makes me think he should. But then he doesn’t act like any stranger who’s known my identity ever has before. My gut is giving me zero clues on this one. So, I keep my trap shut. I’ll just get to be the mysterious, nameless girl who had a drink with him once.
He’s waiting, but rather than offer my name back, I say, “I’m ready for that drink, Miles.”
He nods once more, quiet and strong, then walks up the flight of narrow stairs.
I’m expecting something dark and cold at the top of this walk. But Miles opens the small, rounded door, and light spills out of the space. He ducks himself inside and I follow after, suddenly anxious for what I’ll see. Slanted ceilings make the small quarters of this room feel even smaller. But the big windows built into the right half of the skewed ceiling bring in the sunshine and light up the space beautifully. There’s a worktable, a couple stools, and several easels about the room. The wall at my left is covered with a myriad of colored paper—construction paper, I think. Each hue blends into the next, making a rainbow of color in a nonsensical way. There are canvases with half-finished paintings on two of the easels. I can’t stop looking—there’s too much to see—but Miles just walks past it all.
“My place is through here.” He points to another hobbit door at the back of the small room. I almost missed it with all the light and color and work to be seen.
“This isn’t—”
“This is my art studio. But I live in here.” He’s still directing me to the closed door within the small studio.
“You live in the gallery?”
“Above it,” he says. He stops at the door, his eyes finding mine. “You still okay? I can always take you back down.”
“Let’s go,” I say while the women in my life scold me inside of my head. They aren’t wrong—going to a strange man’s apartment alone at any time of day isn’t something I’d normally recommend. But somehow, I still feel good about going.
Besides, it isn’t like I know nothing about the man. I watched Miles last week and again today. I heard him speak to his friend—the man in the wheelchair—and the other man, who I’m certain is not a friend. I even know a little about him. He wants that building across the street for something, and the rude man he spoke to refused.
Okay… not a lot to go on. But I do know something—and I know my gut. Don’t be wrong, okay gut?
Somehow, Miles’ home is even smaller than his studio. There isn’t even enough room in this place for a full-sized refrigerator. There’s a couch for two and a small television. And one more hobbit door off to the right.
“I’d give you a tour, but…” He shrugs.
“I think I’ve seen it all. Well, except your bedroom.” I point to the door.
“That’s the bathroom.” His brows lift. “We are standing in my kitchen, living room, and bedroom.”
“No bed?” I peer around as if I could have missed one in this small space.
“The couch turns into a bed.”
“Ah.” I laugh and finger some of my messy hair behind one ear. My hat is stuffed inside of my crossover bag and part of me is tempted to put it back on. I’m probably a mess. But the thing was giving me a headache.
Besides, Miles doesn’t care, and no photographers know where we are.
And yet, I’d love to freshen up. “Could I use your bathroom?”
“Sure. I’ll grab your drink. Water or Coke?”
I narrow my gaze. “Nothing stronger, huh?”
His lip twitches with the start of a grin. I wait just a second for it to bloom, wanting to see his full grin. But he doesn’t give it.
He blinks down at the ground, scratches the back of his curly-haired head, then peers back at me. “Not at the moment.” Miles is handsome. He’s kind. And in the few minutes that I’ve actually known him personally, he’s genuine.
I knew my mother was wrong.
Good job, gut.I like him already.