Chapter 11 Serious Is Overrated #2
Miles heads into the open kitchen, and I sink into the plush couch cushions. My gaze drifts to the coffee table, where a neat stack of books catches my attention. I reach down to the lower shelf and pull them out. A Mediterranean diet cookbook and two books about living with MS. My heart stutters.
Miles returns with two bottles of water and freezes mid-step when he sees what I’m holding. “What’s wrong?” he asks carefully.
I lift the books. “Why do you have these?”
“Oh. After you told me your mom has MS, I wanted to learn more about it.”
“And the cookbook?”
“If we go flying again, I thought maybe I could bring a picnic instead of only snacks.”
My thoughts don’t just stall, they vanish, as if someone flipped the breaker and left me standing in the dark.
He learned about my mom’s MS a week ago.
A week. And he’s already got books for research.
He’s thinking about picnics and food that’ll make her day easier.
My throat tightens as if I swallowed a brick.
I’ve dated men for months—men who kissed me, slept with me, called me “babe”—and they still couldn’t tell me what MS stands for.
They’d nod when I talked, then change the subject like my mom’s illness was an awkward dinner topic instead of my life.
But Miles… Miles heard one thing that mattered to me, and he didn’t just listen. He took matters into his own hands.
Heat burns behind my eyes. I blink too hard, trying to bully the tears back into place. My hands suddenly don’t know what to do with the books, with the moment, with the fact that I want to laugh and cry and shake him all at once.
“Why would you—” My voice cracks. I clear my throat, but it doesn’t fix the way my pulse flutters. “You didn’t have to do that.”
He shrugs. “I wanted to.”
And that undoes me. I’m not used to people showing up like this.
Not without being asked. Not without being begged.
My grip tightens on the book covers until my fingers ache, and for a moment, I can’t quite breathe around the truth pressing against my ribs.
This is what it feels like when someone actually cares.
“I hope that’s okay,” he adds, suddenly unsure.
“Oh. Yeah.” My voice comes out softer than I intend. “Of course.”
He hands me a bottle of water and sits a half cushion away from me. I twist off the cap and take a long gulp, mostly to buy myself a moment to breathe.
“So…” Miles runs his palms on his thighs. “Dating lessons?”
I glance up. “Right. Lessons. The reason why I’m here. What do you want to start with?”
“Can we go over more conversation topics?”
He asks the kinds of get-to-know-you questions someone would ask on a real date.
A couple of times, I tease him when he stumbles over his answers, but the conversation keeps flowing.
He feels different now. More relaxed. Next, we practice sitting closer and adding in casual touches.
He drapes his arm along the back of the couch behind me—not quite touching, but close enough that the space between us disappears.
Close enough that heat gathers at my side and stubbornly refuses to fade.
Miles sits up and rests his elbows on his knees. “With my family dinner, should we practice showing affection toward each other? Maybe we can start by holding hands again. Just… for practice.”
I nod, pretending my pulse isn’t racing.
His fingers lace with mine, easy and natural, as if this is something we’ve done a hundred times before. “Okay. Yeah. I can do this.”
“So,” I press my lips together. “Next step.”
His voice lowers. “What next step?”
“The thing people do without thinking when they’re… comfortable.”
His gaze flicks to my mouth and back up so quickly I almost convince myself I imagined it. Almost.
“Like kissing?”
I try to keep my tone light. “No. Finishing each other’s sentences.”
“Oh.” His face drops.
I fall over with laughter, my forehead crashing into his bicep. “I’m sorry. I was teasing you.”
He chuckles softly and then he shifts closer, the couch giving under his weight until our knees bump. The contact is brief, accidental—except he doesn’t pull away.
Mallow chooses that moment to hop up between us, tail curving into a question mark and bunts my wrist.
Miles freezes. “Not now, Mallow.”
I laugh, but it comes out shaky. “He’s just jealous.” I pet his head before bending down to press a kiss to the top of his head.
“Who’s jealous of who now,” he mutters, scooping Mallow up and depositing him on the far cushion. Mallow immediately turns his back to us. “Okay.” He clears his throat. “How are we going to sell this to my family?”
I wave a hand between us. “Like this. We laugh and playfully tease each other. Add in the touching. Arm around my shoulders or hand on my leg.” I reach over, grab his wrist, and gently place his hand on my thigh just a few inches above my knee.
Nothing too scandalous. His fingers lightly brush against my jeans, and my breath gets tripped up. “Just like that.”
Miles stares at his hand for a second before glancing up and meeting my gaze. He nods. “Got it. Hand on thigh.”
I force a smile that feels steadier than I am. “So. What else do couples do when they’re sitting this close?”
Miles hesitates. The tension in his shoulders is visible, as if he’s afraid of getting it wrong. “Uh—eye contact? Smiling. That kind of thing.”
“Are you asking or telling me?” I tease, even though my pulse is already skidding out of control.
He frowns. “I’m trying not to mess it up.”
That’s the problem—he’s being careful. And suddenly, I don’t want to be careful.
I don’t want to think about how my feelings are getting louder, heavier, harder to brush aside.
I don’t want to examine how warm his house feels, or how his kindness keeps knocking the air out of me.
This needs to stay simple. Fake. But it’s hard to pretend when I know the titles of the books on his coffee table.
“Okay,” Miles murmurs, eyes dropping to my mouth again, longer this time. “We should practice… the close-range thing.”
I swallow. “The close-range thing?”
“Yeah.” His voice goes softer. “Eye contact. Smiling.”
My heart bangs against my ribs as if it’s trying to escape. “What you’ll want to do is rest your hand on my cheek for something soft, or if you want to be more dominating, on my neck.”
“Which one do you like?”
“My neck.”
He lifts his hand and cups the side of my neck. His thumb brushes my jaw. “How is this?”
“Good. Perfect.” I inhale a sharp breath when his fingertips dimple my skin. “This is practice,” I remind him. Or myself. Possibly the cat.
“I know.” The words come out hollow, as if he doesn’t quite believe them himself.
He shifts closer and tilts my face up just enough that the world narrows to his eyes and the faint smell of cedar and sage. His breath is soft against my mouth. I try to be smart. Sensible. Remember the rules.
But then he whispers, “Is this okay?”
“You’re doing great.”
Relief flickers across his face before his gaze drops again, his thumb tracing my jaw as if he’s committing it to memory.
He nods—just once. Barely. So I close the distance.
My lips brush against his, and my heart stutters when he doesn’t respond right away.
Just as I’m about to pull back, his other hand settles on my thigh, right above the knee, exactly where I showed him, and then he kisses me back.
It starts soft. Careful. Like he’s still asking permission even after I’ve given it.
But there’s urgency underneath—heat, restraint, a quiet hunger—that makes my knees go weak and my lungs forget how to work for a second.
Then, within seconds, he takes control and deepens the kiss.
Not rough or aggressive, but smooth like aged whiskey.
It’s slow and confident, as if he’s kissed a hundred women before me but still knows exactly how to make this one matter.
It’s not the kind of kiss that overwhelms you into dizziness.
It’s worse. It’s the kind that feels safe and electric all at once.
The kind that sinks in slow and deep and leaves you thinking, Oh. So this is what I’ve been missing.
When I pull back, my lips tingle. I fight the instinct to press my fingers to my mouth, just to prove this actually happened.
My eyelids drift open slowly, and his eyes, darker now, are locked on mine.
My thoughts scatter like confetti raining down around me.
A kiss like that. With Miles. How is that even possible?
Some kisses don’t just steal your breath— they rearrange your expectations. And this one did exactly that.
“Can I ask you a personal question?” I murmur.
“Yeah.” His voice is quiet.
“How many women have you kissed?”
His body stiffens just a fraction. “Why?” He glances at me, uncertainty flickering in his eyes. “Was it bad?”
I shake my head quickly. “No. That was…” I swallow. “…great.”
Too great.
I pull back, needing space before I do something reckless and kiss him again. His hand slips from my neck, and I immediately miss the warmth.
His gaze drops to the floor. Slowly, he removes his hand from my thigh and slides it down his. “One,” he mutters.
I’m waiting for him to add dozen, hundred, times five, but nothing. I reach for him without thinking, grip his chin, and tilt his face up until he has no choice but to look at me. “Hey. No.” My voice comes out firmer than I expect. “There is nothing to be embarrassed about.”
His eyes search mine.
“That was a really good kiss,” I say, softer now. “Like you’ve done this a thousand times.”
The corner of his mouth curves, hesitant but pleased, and my chest loosens.
I don’t know why that’s what pushes me over the edge, but it does.
I lean in and kiss him again. This one steals the air from my lungs.
It’s slower. Deeper. His hand settles on my thigh, and everything else falls away.
The world narrows to the softness of his mouth moving against mine—confident now, unguarded, and devastatingly good.
Shit. My thoughts scatter. I pull away and stumble back as if I’ve been burned.
That kiss wasn’t practice. Or casual. And absolutely not fake. It makes you rethink every other good kiss you’ve ever had.
Nope. Absolutely not. There are no feelings. There cannot be feelings. “I—” I blurt, already backing away. “I need to go.”
Miles blinks. “Wait—Nora?”
“I can’t,” I say, rushing to the door and sliding on my shoes. “That was—this was—practice. Just practice. And I have to… I have to leave. I—I left my stove on.”
He stands, clearly confused and mildly concerned. If I stay one more second, I’ll kiss him again. So I bolt. Out the door. Down the porch steps and into the night.
My heart is still racing when I reach my car, lips tingling, head spinning, one thought pounding louder than all the rest: If that was just practice… I’m in so much trouble.
My phone buzzes. Once. Twice. Then again. I frown and glance down. Several OneDate alerts flash across my screen.
Server timeout error.
Database connection failed.
Traffic threshold exceeded.
My heart plummets. “Oh shit,” I whisper.
I swipe frantically, adrenaline snapping me fully back into myself as I open the admin dashboard. The screen lags. Freezes. Loads again, but barely. Error codes flood the display.
“No, no, no,” I mutter, fingers flying as I attempt to troubleshoot, but when I bypass one error, three more flare up in its place.
There are hundreds of new users wanting access.
The download code protection must have failed.
The app has picked up momentum—fast. It’s everything I’d hoped for, except OneDate isn’t ready.
I’m not ready. Its current infrastructure can’t handle the traffic, and the servers are choking.
Once I’m in my SUV, I press my forehead against the steering wheel and let out a shaky breath. Of course this happens tonight, right after the best kiss of my life. Of course this is the time everything implodes at once.
My phone buzzes again. Another error.
I straighten, jaw setting, my panic finally giving way to focus. This I can fix. This I understand. Code doesn’t kiss you senseless and then smile like it means something.