29. 29
Miles” loft isn”t exactly my music room back in L.A., but I have writing tools, my guitar, and—time. We spend the entire day with Miles painting in the small studio attached to this loft and me writing and strumming on my guitar in his apartment.
A message dings on my cell, and I glance away from my music notebook to the device next to me.
My mother.
Mom: So, which is it, Delaney—are you married or not? I’m getting conflicting messages. None from my actual daughter. Shocker.
I purse my lips and close out my messaging app without a response.
I should be sharing this news with my family, with my friends, with my online following. That’s the point of all this, right—to get the word out?
I set my guitar to the side and walk into Miles’ space. I don’t want to interrupt him, but I don’t want to share anything without telling him first.
I knock on the frame, the door opened, and peek my head inside. “Hey,” I say when he turns to face me.
“Hey.” He runs a hand through his hair, smearing black paint over his forehead in the process. “Are you hungry? Did I miss dinner? Sometimes I get lost in the project and lose track of time.”
“No—no, you’re fine.” My eyes draw to the mark on his head and my lips twitch with an unspoken giggle. “Um, I’m going to post about our… big news on my social media. Okay?”
“Oh.” He clears his throat and shuffles in his seat. “Sure. I mean, you wanted to reset your image with your fans. This is part of that. So, yeah. That makes sense.”
“What’s your handle?”
“Mine?” he says, eyes narrowed. I wait for the classic Miles head bobble… but not this time.
“Yeah. Can I tag you?”
“Ah, sure. I guess.” He smiles, his lips closed and just turned up. He sets one hand in his curls and scratches, giving me an urge to touch his short brown hair. “It’s @miles.bailey.art.”
“Direct and to the point. I like it.” I clasp my hands together in front of me, and then, because I can’t seem to help myself, I step into the room and walk until I’m standing directly in front of Miles. He peers up at me from his stool as I completely invade his space. I stand so close that I’m right at the center of him, his legs on either side of me.
“Delaney?”
“You just have a little—” I say as pine and musk fill my senses. I drag my thumb along his head, scooping up as much of the black paint as I can. Then, I lean in, pressing a kiss to my husband’s head as he has mine a handful of times in the past few days. It’s soft and slow and more intimate than I intended. Then again, did I intend to kiss him at all?
He takes my wrist, holding my hand to see the black smudged over my finger. “Thanks,” he whispers. With the tail of his flannel shirt, he wipes the paint from my thumb. There’s a tinted outline showing exactly where the paint had been, but he’s wiped it dry.
“Knock, knock,” a voice calls from the hall.
My heart pounds like a teenager caught. Then again, Miles is my husband, and it should be perfectly normal for me to stand this close to him.But is it normal for me to feel this sparking attraction every time he’s near?
“Come in, Coco,” Miles says to his closed door.
I swoop an arm around Miles’ neck and plop down onto his left leg as if we had choreographed this scene.
He grunts in surprise at my new position, his cheeks blossoming that pretty pink I love, but he doesn’t have time to question me as Coco enters the room.
She freezes in place when she sees us, a grin plastered to her pretty face. “Hi,” she says.
”Hey.” Miles” arm dangles at his side, and I wish he”d wrap it around me. I”m guessing if I fell backward, the man would catch me on instinct. But we”re supposed to be newlyweds—lovers—in love. Does he need a refresher?
I’m still pondering how to get my husband of less than a week to touch me when—
“Are you free tonight, Lane—err, Delaney. I’m not really sure which to call you.”
I swallow, blinking over at Miles’ sister. “Ah. Either. I go by either.” I pinch my brows. “Free?”
“Yeah, well, if we’re going to throw you and Miles a reception, the girls and I thought we could have a planning meeting. Sort of a bridal shower-slash-planning-slash-celebration night.”
“That’s a lot of slashes,” I say. It sounds like a lot packed into one night. A lot of unnecessary things filling up a night I’d already planned out with writing, picking, and creating a list of all the things I can do to make Miles blush.
“Sure. We want you to have a say—it’s your party—and we’d all love to spend more time with you—as Miles’ wife,” she adds quickly, “not because you’re a rock star. I know you’re both. But we aren’t being—”
“I get it. I know what you’re saying.” I do. They love their brother, and they want to know his new wife. It’s normal. It’s nice. It’s welcoming. It also sounds like a big family outing—something that is a little out of my comfort zone. But I’m the one who started this. So, I slap on a smile and look at my new sister-in-law. “Sure. What time?”
”Really?” she says, her shoulders straightening. ”Great. Seven. Is seven okay? We”ll pick you up. And it”ll be cool.” She steps backward toward the door, her eyes still on me, and backs right into a standing easel. ”Whoops!” A nervous giggle floods from her mouth. ”Okay. See you then. I”ll see you then—which is tonight.”
“Yep.” I smile and wave as she stumbles her way out the door.
“Girls’ night,” Miles says, turning his head to look at me. He is so close and so deliciously musky.
I register his words and cringe. “Girls’ night?” And not just any girls’ night but family girls’ night.
My clear discomfort only makes him chuckle.
So I tip myself backward, betting on Miles. Betting he”ll catch me and betting that blush will bloom again, twice in fifteen minutes. And—
Miles swoops his arm around my back in half a second. His other scoops beneath my knees, lifting my legs. In two seconds flat, he is standing, and I am a sack of flour scooped up in his arms.
His clean-shaven cheeks do not disappoint—they’re as pink as Alice Taylor’s backpack.