Chapter 9 Chloe #2
I blink, confused. “Where are we?”
“Sammie’s,” he says like it’s obvious. He nods at the glowing sign. “You okay with falafels?”
“Falafels?” I repeat, thrown.
“They’re the best I’ve ever had,” he explains, voice even, though there’s a faint tug of a smile at the edge of his mouth. “I get them here sometimes. I’m hungry. You probably are too. And since it’s barely raining now—but who knows when it’ll start again—might as well eat.”
I can’t help it. I smile. “Oh. Sure.”
We climb out of the car, the air thick with the smell of wet asphalt. My skin prickles in the chill, damp clothes clinging to me again. He shuts his door and glances at me, eyes sharp.
“Do you have a jacket?” he asks.
I glance down at my chest. The tank top. The red bra visible underneath. My face heats instantly. “I… left it in my car.”
He walks to the back of his Chevy, pops the trunk, and pulls out a jacket. His jacket. Huge, black, soft leather worn at the edges.
He drapes it over my shoulders without a word. The weight swallows me whole. It smells like leather and something else, something warm and sharp I want to drown in.
“Thank you,” I murmur, hugging it closer.
“No problem,” he says simply, already walking toward the door.
I follow, my sneakers splashing through shallow puddles.
Inside, Sammie’s hums with life. The smell of frying oil and spices hits me immediately, warm and rich. People call out to Miles like they know him—like everyone knows him. Nods, waves, little grins. He acknowledges them all with a tilt of his chin, a handshake here, a quiet word there.
It’s strange, watching him like this. He’s not the silent, brooding boy behind the wheel anymore. He’s comfortable, familiar, part of this world.
He guides us to a booth tucked away in the back.
“Give me your phone,” he says, holding out his hand.
I blink. “Why?”
“I’ll have someone charge it.”
I hand it over, hesitant. He takes it without question, sliding it into his back pocket. “You okay with spicy food?”
I nod quickly. “Yeah.”
“Good. Be right back.”
And then he’s gone, striding toward the counter, his broad shoulders cutting through the space like he owns it.
Left alone, I glance around. The walls are covered in faded photos—families, sports teams, grainy snapshots of kids with messy grins holding sandwiches bigger than their heads. There’s a chalkboard menu over the counter, scribbled in bright colors. The hum of voices fills the space, warm and easy.
But my eyes keep going back to him. To his back, the way his shirt stretches across muscle, the casual ease in the way he leans over the counter and says something that makes the guy there laugh. Miles Thatcher smiling—really smiling—is something I didn’t know I needed to see.
When he comes back, he’s balancing two trays—stuffed pitas overflowing with greens, sauces, steaming falafels, and two glass bottles of Coke.
He sets one in front of me. “Here.”
“Thanks,” I say softly.
“Your phone’s charging,” he adds.
“Thank you,” I repeat, my voice even quieter.
“Try it,” he says, nodding at the food.
Self-conscious, I pick it up, the pita warm and soft in my hands. I take a bite. Flavor bursts over my tongue—spicy, tangy, rich. It’s so much better than I expected, heat prickling across my lips.
“Well?” he asks, watching me too closely.
“It’s…” I swallow, grinning despite myself. “So good. Like, really good. Way spicier than I thought.”
He smirks faintly, then digs into his own.
We eat in silence, though I can’t shake the awareness of his gaze flicking over me, steady and heavy. I keep my eyes on the pita, on the little pieces falling to the paper tray. Sauce drips onto my chin, so I reach for a napkin, embarrassed, but before I can, he leans across the table.
His thumb swipes the spot, slow, deliberate.
And then he brings it to his mouth.
Sucks it clean.
My entire body combusts. Heat surges everywhere—my chest, my throat, between my thighs. I grip tightly onto the napkin I just reached for, holding on, because if I don’t, I might melt right here in front of him.
He sits back, unbothered, going back to his food like he didn’t just casually detonate me.
I force myself to keep eating, though my hands shake.
When we finish, he gets up, brings me napkins, and places my phone on the table.
“Give me a minute,” he says, sliding out of the booth.
I nod, clutching the napkins like a lifeline.
He heads back toward the counter, talking to the same guys, his voice carrying low but warm.
I press the power button on my phone. The screen lights up, battery nearly full.
A new message flashes immediately. It’s from my dad’s lawyer.
Sorry, but we did not—
I stop reading. My stomach twists. I don’t need the rest. I already know. They’re still refusing to let me see him.
I lock the screen, shove the phone into my pocket, my throat tight, my eyes burning.
When Miles comes back, jogging a little, his eyes scan my face. “You okay?”
I force a smile, nodding quickly. “Yeah.”
He studies me for a beat longer, like he doesn’t believe me, but doesn’t push.
“Let’s get you home,” he says.
And somehow, I wish we weren’t leaving.
The rest of the drive is so quiet that I can hear the rain ticking against the windshield like an impatient metronome.
The only other sound is the low hum of the engine beneath us, steady and strong, but even that feels muted compared to the silence stretching between us.
I sneak a glance at him every so often, watching the way his hands tighten around the wheel, the way his jaw flexes like he’s grinding down words he doesn’t say.
It should feel awkward, unbearable even, but instead there’s a strange kind of charge in the air like something heavy that hasn’t been released yet.
When the car finally pulls up outside my apartment building, my chest is almost sore from holding everything in. He slows to a stop by the curb, shifting into park. My throat feels scratchy, but I force a smile as I unbuckle my seatbelt.
“Thank you,” I tell him softly, curling my fingers around the strap of my bag. “For the drive. For… all of it.”
His gray eyes flick toward me. “What’s bothering you?”
The question is so sudden, so direct, it stuns me. He doesn’t ask casually either. He asks like he knows. Like he saw through every flimsy smile I plastered on tonight.
I swallow, looking down at my hands. “Family stuff,” I say quickly. It’s the safest truth. “Nothing you need to worry about.”
He studies me for a beat too long but doesn’t push. He just nods once.
“Thanks again,” I add, opening the door. The drizzle is still falling, cool against my cheeks as I step out of the Impala. I sling my bag over my shoulder, trying to steady my breathing, trying to remind myself that this night is already too much, too strange, too intense.
I’ve only taken a few steps when his voice cuts through the rain.
“Wait.”
The word freezes me in place. My heart jerks violently against my ribs as I turn back.
He’s out of the car, the door clicking shut behind him.
He’s standing close now, close enough that I have to tilt my chin up just to meet his eyes.
The rain glints against his hair, a few drops trailing down the scar along his jaw.
He looks unreal like this. He’s so attractive it hurts.
“Yeah?” My voice is unsteady, trembling against the drizzle.
He doesn’t answer at first. He just reaches out, slow but sure, his fingers brushing the knot of my messy bun. Then he tugs, gentle but deliberate, pulling the elastic loose until my hair falls down around my shoulders in damp waves. My breath stutters.
“It looks better like that,” he murmurs, his hand grazing my cheek.
My heart is a full drumline now, no rhythm, no control. That’s it?
“Thanks,” I whisper. My tongue darts out to wet my lips, nerves crackling through me, and his eyes follow the movement like he’s memorizing it.
He’s so close I can smell him—leather, soap, something darker that feels dangerously addictive.
“You should have the number for the garage,” he says, his voice low, almost gruff. “So you can contact them about your car.”
“Oh.” I blink, trying to ground myself. “Right. Yeah.”
I shrug off his jacket, ready to hand it back, but he shakes his head. “Stop.”
“What?”
“How about you give me your number,” he says, like it’s nothing, like it’s casual, even though my entire body feels like it’s combusting. “We’ll arrange for when you can give me the jacket back.”
“Okay,” I breathe.
He pulls out his phone, places it in my hand. My fingers shake as I type my number in, the screen slick under my thumb. When I hand it back, he dials immediately, and my own phone buzzes in my pocket.
Then, before I can even register, his hand curls into the collar of his jacket that’s still draped on my shoulders. He tugs me closer, closing that small but impossible distance. He slides his phone back into his pocket with his free hand like this is the most natural thing in the world.
“Thanks for tonight,” I manage, my voice weak, almost swallowed by the rain.
“You’re welcome,” he says simply.
And then his palm is cupping my cheek, firm but careful, his thumb brushing my skin as he leans down. My entire body goes liquid, my knees barely holding me up.
“Miles,” I whisper, though I barely recognize my own voice. “What are you doing?”
His forehead presses against mine, his breath warm and ragged. “I don’t know.”
And then his mouth crashes onto mine.
The kiss is rough, urgent, like he’s been holding back all night and finally snapped.
His lips drag across mine, commanding, claiming, and just when the bite of it makes my head spin, his tongue sweeps against my bottom lip, softening the edges, soothing the sting.
My hands fly to his chest, fingers curling into his shirt, and he groans low into my mouth.
One hand fists in my hair at the scalp, tugging my head back so he can deepen the kiss, while the other slides down to the curve of my neck, holding me there like he’ll never let go.
His scent surrounds me—dark, heady, so completely him.
My bones feel like they’ve melted, like the only thing holding me together is him.
“Fuck,” he mutters against my mouth, the word vibrating through me as he nips at my lip again. The sting makes me gasp, and I bite back, sharper than I intended, teeth scraping across his mouth.
The copper tang of blood hits my tongue and I jerk back, horrified. “Sorry!” I blurt, my cheeks flaming. My heart is hammering, mortification crawling through every nerve.
But he just chuckles, low and rough, his thumb brushing the corner of my swollen mouth. “Don’t be.” His lips curve into a dangerous smirk, his eyes burning into mine. “Vicious little princess.”
Heat floods me from the inside out. My whole body feels like it’s caught fire.
He dips his head again, quick this time, pressing a shorter kiss to my lips before pulling back just enough to murmur, “Walk into the building so I can make sure I got you home in one piece. I’ll see you around.”
I can barely think. My legs feel numb, boneless, as I step back toward the door to my apartment building. I don’t know how I even get them to move, how I manage to climb the steps with my heart still sprinting inside my chest and his taste still on my mouth.
I don’t look back. I can’t. If I do, I know I’ll run straight back into his arms, and I don’t think I’ll ever want to leave.