10. 10
Ican”t sleep. That”s never a good sign. I can always sleep. My mind keeps returning to Miles the artist who didn”t ask for my number or a photo or even to have me sign anything. It”s not the norm. So not the norm that I was sure he had no idea who I was.
I knock my head against the wooden headboard of this king-sized bed and nibble on my thumbnail.
My eyes refuse to close. I snatch my cell from the end table and bring the thing to life to see a text from my sister. When I open it up, there’s a screenshot of a tabloid. A photo of me and a kneeling, curly-haired, deliciously decent Miles. She’s written one word and a million question marks.
Eryn: Who???????
Flailing my arms, I sit up. “Crap.” I open my celebrity news app and— “Double crap!”
Multiple photos light up the screen—several of me, from my time with the Judys to walking into my Airbnb the other night. And then there’s the big one, the framed photo. While it’s not flawless since taken through the gallery window, I still know who that is. Miles kneels in front of me, and it looks as though we’re holding hands. I scroll down to more photos from yesterday. None of the gallery pictures are crystal clear—but they all clearly imply that something is up. They’ve zoomed in on Miles’ face, our hands together, and the knee he’s kneeling on, all a little distorted and all hinting at things that didn’t happen. The captions don’t help.
Who is this nobody proposing to Lane?
Did Lane Jonas finally say yes?
No wonder Lane didn’t want Patrick. She was already in love.
I glance down at one more, pull in a gasp, and roll over in this borrowed bed—only I turn left when I should turn right, falling out of bed like a cat who has used up her nine lives. My back hits the ground, forcing all the air from my lungs. My hands still clutch my cell and my eyes are still glued to the text on the screen.
Wedding bells in Jonas’ future.
I’m not sure if it’s the headlines or if hitting the ground so hard knocked all the sense out of me, but all at once, I have a plan.
A good one. One for me and maybe even one for Miles.
That is, if I can get him to go along with me. He’s so darn decent and sensible, he may never agree.
Iwait until five in the morning, and then I text my morally strong, artistic hero. I’m counting on the fact that Miles didn’t seem glued to his phone or act like a starstruck puppy being on my side.
With all of those vibes mojoing inside of me, rooting me on, I write to Miles.
Me: This is Lane.
Me: Can you meet me in the gallery first thing this morning? I have a favor to ask.
I clamp down on my bottom lip. A favor? Yeah, that’s all this is… one teensy, weensy, little—enormous—favor.
I’m hoping he’ll see the message before he starts his day—before the crap hits the fan and my little twisted plan never sees the light of day.
I jump up, ready to shower, ready to be ready for when Miles does text me back. Because good intuition tells me he isn’t the kind of man to ignore a girl. That, and he literally told me to call if I needed anything. Toss out the fact that I’m famous. He didn’t seem to care.
I”m in the bathroom, half stripped when my phone pings at only 5:30am. The man is awake—already?
Either that, or my mother has seen the photos and she’s texting—again…
Nope—it’s Miles.
Bless him.
Miles: What time?
I turn the shower water on, letting the hot water steam up my rented master bath’s windows and mirrors, creating my own personal sauna.
Me: How soon can you be ready?
Miles: I am ready. Sort of.
Me: Does that mean you’ve showered?
Miles: Well… no. That means I’m up, I’ve worked out, and I’ve spent twenty minutes on a piece that’s going nowhere.
Huh. Early riser. I don’t know why it makes me smile. I sleep in as long as the tour or Ash will allow. Still, I like this about Miles. It says more about his character. For some dumb reason, the fact that Miles Somebody wakes up early to work out and paint makes me trust him all the more.
Me:When does your boss open up?
Miles: Lars comes in a little before eight, but I can always open up for you.
Eight. Perfect. I need Lars there.
Me: Eight works. That way you’ll have time to shower all the man stink off of yourself.
Miles: And you’ll have time to eat a nutritious meal of gummy bears for breakfast.
I giggle and rub away the moisture beading on my neck from my homemade sauna. Already Miles-the-decent-adorable-artist gets me.
This is going to work out. I have a feeling.