Chapter 4 Miles? Charming? #2
“Okay. I’m going to finish setting it up. Thank you.” He flashes me a smile bright enough to power the neon beer sign hanging on the wall and heads for the door.
I blow out a slow breath once he’s gone. He’ll be fine. I hope.
Is this a total abuse of power? Probably.
But also, it’s my app, and I can do whatever I want.
Right now, curiosity has the best of me.
I open OneDate and pull up his match. Not because Miles is undatable.
He’s friendly, harmless, endearingly quirky, and smart—smart enough to entertain a packed room if he ever stops overthinking long enough to be himself. But he’s also… Miles.
Her profile loads. She’s looking for someone charming, which is debatable with Miles. Smart. Check. And must be clean cut and can appear professional. My eyes narrow. Is khaki considered professional? Because I’m fairly certain that’s his entire wardrobe. My phone buzzes, nearly making me drop it.
Miles
What if I screw this up?
I sigh softly. He’s in need of a serious confidence boost. I think that might be the hardest part of this yet.
Nora
You’ve got this. There’s nothing to worry about.
Miles
Do you know who you’re talking to?
A laugh slips out before I can stop it.
Nora
Okay. What if I give you some pointers?
Miles
Some?
Nora
Fine. All the pointers.
Miles
I would really appreciate that. Thank you, Nora.
I stare at the screen for a beat longer than necessary. What have I just signed up for? Hopefully, he’s a quick learner and absorbs everything I tell him like a sponge.
Nora
Are you free tomorrow night?
Miles
I have a meeting at four. It should last an hour, and then I’m free.
Nora
I’ll text you my address.
Miles
Great. Thank you. I’ll see you then.
The next day at five o’clock sharp, my phone buzzes.
Miles
Meeting’s over. On my way.
Five minutes later.
Miles
Traffic. Might be late.
Two minutes after that.
Miles
False alarm. Traffic cleared. On my way again.
Ten minutes later.
Miles
Pulling up to your apartment.
I stare at my phone, half expecting the next update to be “now approaching your door.” But instead, there’s a knock.
I launch off the couch and peer through the peephole.
Miles stares back at me through a fisheye lens, black-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, hair styled in that floppy, accidentally adorable way.
He’s wearing a dark gray polo and—of course—khakis.
I open the door. “Hi, Miles.”
“This is a nice building.” His gaze roams from ceiling to floorboards before he grips the doorframe and gives it an experimental wiggle. It doesn’t budge.
“I just rent it,” I reply, stepping aside. “Come in.”
He steps through the doorway. And—wow. He smells good. Cedar and sage. It’s not overpowering or cologne-y, but unexpectedly masculine. I shake the thought away before it can finish forming.
“Welcome to my very humble abode.” I wave my hand over the very small studio apartment.
Shit. Immediately, I clock everything I should’ve fixed.
The laundry basket overflowing in the corner.
At the very least, I could have dumped everything into the closet and shut the doors.
Maybe folded the blanket draped over the couch.
Tidied up the papers scattered over my desk.
Doesn’t matter. It’s not important. I’m not trying to impress Miles. He’s here for coaching.
“It looks quaint.” He crouches and works each knot on his shoes loose with careful fingers.
No lazy toe-kick. He slides his shoes off then places them side by side—heels even, toes aligned, laces tucked neatly in—right next to my entryway situation of boots, sneakers, and one rogue flip-flop living its best chaotic life.
For some reason, the tiny, methodical way he does it makes my chest do this annoying little tighten-and-soften thing, like my brain can’t decide if I’m amused… or weirdly comforted.
“Are you making curry?” His gaze meets mine.
“Yeah. Are you hungry? I made plenty.” I gesture toward the kitchen. “You can sit and I’ll grab you a plate.”
“Are you eating too? I don’t want to be the only one.”
“Yes.”
I scoop curry and rice onto two plates, steam rising in a fragrant spiral of ginger and cumin. When I turn around, Miles is already seated at my tiny two-person table.
I freeze. “We can eat in the makeshift living room. That’s normally where I eat.”
He glances at the couch, then back at the table. “I just thought… a table. Dinner.”
He’s not wrong. Functional adults sit at tables. They use placemats. They don’t hover over a keyboard on the couch, balancing a plate on their knee while answering emails between bites. Who does that?
“Table it is.” I set the plates down. “Do you want anything to drink? I’ve got wine, beer, water—”
“Water would be great.”
I grab two bottles from the fridge. The seals crack sharply when I twist them open, the sound oddly loud in the quiet apartment. I slide onto the chair across from him. “When’s your date?”
“This weekend. At Le Uve.” His tone is steady, but he keeps twisting the bottle cap back and forth between his fingers.
“Dress code?”
“Business casual.”
I glance at the steam curling up from the curry. “Perfect. Your khaki collection finally gets its moment.”
“Khakis are very versatile,” he states very matter-of-factly.
I snort. “You sound like a catalog description. ‘Miles Kayson: reliable, washable, available in three neutral tones.’”
He laughs softly, a little shy. “They’re practical.”
“Sure, because everyone wants to date practical.” I take a sip of water, suddenly hyperaware of how close his knee is to mine under the table. “Okay. What do you actually need help with?”
He twists the cap again; the plastic squeaks. Then he takes a long drink. “Everything?”
The word settles between us, heavier than the cumin hanging in the air. “That’s broad,” I reply. “Let’s narrow it down.”
“You know how disastrous my last date was. I just need to… not do that.”
“This is different. With Maggie, you were trying to impress her. With OneDate, you’re not. No performance anxiety.”
He nods once. “It’s still labeled a date. That’s all my brain will hear.”
“You’ll have to remind yourself it’s not a date.
But also, that’s why we’re practicing.” I point at him.
“Next topic: conversation. No sea cucumbers. No bathroom reviews. No animals that resemble the food she’s currently chewing.
If it swims, crawls, slithers, or has ever been served on a plate, it’s banned.
Try talking about normal things. Hobbies.
Movies. Weather. Goals. The existence of socks.
Literally anything that won’t make someone rethink their dinner choice. ”
He draws in a breath and nods. “I believe I can comply with those parameters.”
“You believe?”
“I get nervous.” His palms drag down his thighs. “Then my brain retrieves facts and, before I can intercept them, my mouth deploys them.”
“Your mouth needs a firewall.”
He considers that. “That seems reasonable.”
“Okay.” I straighten on my chair. “Pretend I’m your date. What do you say?”
He immediately sits taller. “It’s nice weather we’re having. It should lead into a warm fall. Did you know—”
I lift one finger, and he stops mid-breath. “No random facts. If she asks, fine. Otherwise, no ‘did you know.’”
He nods again. “Understood.”
“Reset.” I shift in my seat. “I’m your date.”
Miles mirrors me immediately—spine locked and shoulders squared.
“Relax,” I murmur. “Breathe.”
“Right.” He exhales.
“You’re at her cousin’s engagement party. String lights everywhere. Too much champagne. At least one aunt with zero respect for personal boundaries.” He nods. “You’re standing beside me. Lead the conversation.”
He takes a breath. “Hi. I’m glad I could help you tonight.”
I soften my tone. “Of course. I’m glad you agreed.”
“That feels… doable.”
“Because it’s honest. Now keep going.”
He pauses, thinking. “So… how close are you to your cousin?”
A smile slips out before I can stop it. “Perfect. That shows interest and gives me room to talk. We grew up together. Big family. Loud holidays, including engagement parties.”
He nods. “I can see that.”
“Good. Now add something about yourself.”
“Maybe… my family isn’t as big as yours, but we’re close too.”
“That works. It’s a compliment without trying too hard.”
He lets out a slow breath. “Okay. I can handle that part.”
“Next scenario.” I lean back in my chair. “Someone asks how you met.”
His shoulders tighten instantly. “Oh.”
“Welcome to engagement parties. What’s your answer?”
He clears his throat. “We were set up through mutual friends. Turns out we get along pretty well.”
I nod. “Perfect. It’s simple and vague. Safe. Just make sure you and your date agree on the story beforehand.”
A faint grin spreads across his face. “I like safe.”
“Now you’re sitting together. The music is playing and you’ve escaped the group conversation, what do you ask?”
He hesitates. “Is it okay to ask if she’s having a good time?”
“Yes. It’s considerate.”
“And if she says yes?”
“Then you follow up.”
He nods, thinking it through. “Good. I am too. The food’s been great.”
“That’s perfect. It shows awareness without making it heavy.”
His shoulders ease. “This isn’t as terrifying as I thought.”
“It’s not.” I shift in my chair. “Now imagine a quieter moment. Just the two of you.” I hold his gaze. “What do you ask?”
He swallows. “What’s something you’re looking forward to?”
A smile pulls at my mouth. “That’s really good. Open-ended. Personal without crossing a line.”
“I’m learning.”
For the next hour, we run through dating fundamentals—respect, listening, eye contact, reading the room. He catalogs each of my points as if storing it to memory.
“Alright,” I say, pushing to my feet. He stands immediately. I step closer—not touching, just inside his personal space. His warmth radiates from his body while cedar and sage cocoon me. I exhale, regaining my composure. “It’s the end of the night and you walk me to my car, what do you say?”
He draws in a steady breath. “Thanks for inviting me. I had a really good time.”
“Good. Now add intention.”
“If you ever need another date, I’d be happy to go with you.”
There it is. Simple. Sincere. And with a tiny hint of confidence. My pulse trips over itself. “Perfect,” I murmur. “That’s exactly right.”
He smiles, one side tipping up higher than the other. “Thank you for helping me.”
“You’re welcome.” And for half a second, I forget what we’re doing. I step back first. “Practice date over.”
“Right.” He grabs his jacket and heads for the door. Just as he pulls it open, I call his name, and he turns around.
“Relax,” I tell him, softer this time. “You’ve got this.”
He nods once then steps into the hallway, the door clicking shut behind him. Pride settles low in my gut along with another emotion that’s harder to name. He’s ready for his fake date. And there’s a very real chance he’s going to charm her.