Chapter 15 I’m Excellent With Ladders
Fifteen
I’m Excellent With Ladders
Miles
I’m at Nora’s apartment on a Tuesday afternoon because my dad has developed an alarming level of comfort with lounging on the couch in his underwear.
I love my parents. I really do. But there are limits—and one of them is accidentally making eye contact with my father while he eats cereal in boxers at three in the afternoon. Especially if Nora happens to be there.
So instead, I’m here. Her place smells faintly of apples and cinnamon.
Books are stacked sideways on the coffee table.
A half-burned candle sits on the windowsill.
A throw blanket hangs over the arm of the couch as if it’s never known the concept of being folded.
Nora stands at the counter, stirring a mug of hot cocoa.
This is supposed to be practice dating stuff. Low-pressure conversation. Comfortable silence. Normal, domestic moments that don’t feel like a lesson plan. Which makes it the absolute worst—and best—time to ask her something very much not low pressure at all.
I clear my throat. “In two weeks, the Bluestone Group has its New Year’s Eve gala and…” I rub the back of my neck, suddenly very aware of my own heartbeat.
She stills, then turns to face me. “Okay…”
“And,” I continue carefully, each word wobbling like a miscalibrated gyroscope, “I was wondering if you’d go with me.”
She doesn’t answer right away. Instead, she leans back against the counter, studying me over the rim of her mug. “You know I built an entire dating app for these types of situations. One you’ve used. More than once.”
“Yes,” I admit. “I know.”
“So, in theory,” she continues, eyebrow lifting, “you could use the app to find a date.”
I nod. “Yes. That would be… an option.”
“And yet, you’re here. Asking me.”
I swallow. “Yeah.”
She takes a sip. “Why me?”
The question lands heavier than it should, or maybe exactly as heavy as it’s meant to. I could give her a dozen answers. Easy ones. Strategic ones. Because you already know half the guest list. Because you’re good at this. Because you’re confident. But none of them are the real truth.
I shrug. “Because you already know me. And because with you, it’s comfortable.” Her expression softens a fraction. Enough to make my chest ache. I keep going before I can talk myself out of it. “I don’t want to impress anyone that night. I just want to… be myself. And you make that easier.”
Silence stretches between us, and my brain eagerly fills it with worst-case scenarios—her saying no, me showing up alone again, or worse, with a random woman from OneDate.
Finally, she exhales. “I’ll do it. On one condition.”
I straighten immediately. “Okay.”
“You come help me decorate my mom’s place for Christmas first. Normally, she doesn’t do much decorating because hauling boxes and unpacking everything can be too much for her. I want to make this year extra special. Plus”—she adds, eyeing me—“your height will come in handy.”
A smile breaks across my face before I can stop it. Big and unapologetic. Probably a little too much, but I don’t care. “Deal.”
She watches me for a beat, then shakes her head, amused. “I get an open bar and free hors d’oeuvres.” She shrugs. “Pretty sure I’m winning the deal. You look way too excited about hanging tinsel.”
“I’m a festive guy,” I reply. “And I’m excellent with ladders.”
She laughs, and the sound settles deep in my ribs. I remind myself this is still fake. Practice. A means to an end.
Since Diane’s house is on the way, I stop at the library first. I grab the stack of books from the passenger seat—two on living with MS, a cookbook, and one on dating and relationships—and head inside.
My gaze flicks instinctively to the front desk.
Maggie isn’t there. The tension in my shoulders eases a notch.
I cross the room and slide the books into the return slot, listening as they disappear with a muted thud.
A different librarian rounds the corner and smiles at me, and my shoulders drop the rest of the way.
It’s not that I’m avoiding Maggie. I’m just…
conflicted. If she asks for another date, what do I even say?
I’m not dating Nora. She’s helping me so I can date Maggie.
That’s the whole point. Still, the answers don’t come.
When I step back outside, the air feels lighter. Like a hard reset.
Nora’s directions take me a few blocks over to a row of townhouses already glowing with white Christmas lights along the porch railings.
I balance a paper bag against my hip—three Mediterranean chicken bowls—and ring the bell.
The snowflakes have barely a second to swirl around me before the door swings open.
Nora stands there in a soft green sweater and jeans, her hair pulled into a messy bun. She brightens when she spots the bag.
“Did you bring dinner?” she asks, stepping aside.
“I did. Unless you already ate, then you can save it for tomorrow.”
From the living room, Diane calls, “Is that Miles?”
“Yes,” Nora answers, grinning at me. “And he brought dinner.” She turns to me. “We were waiting for you to arrive before we ordered delivery, so this is perfect.”
Diane appears in the entryway with her cane in her hand and a bright scarf wrapped around her neck. Her smile is warm, maybe a little tired, but unmistakably kind. “You didn’t have to bring dinner.” She takes the bag from me.
“I wanted to. I hope you enjoy chicken and couscous.”
She briefly glances at Nora before returning her attention to me. “Sounds delicious.” After setting the bag on the counter, she leans in and gives me a brief hug that smells faintly of lavender. “Thank you, Miles. Really.”
Before I can respond, Nora steps forward and wraps her arms around me in a full-body hug. I can’t help smiling at how easily she fits against me.
After dinner, we drag boxes from the hall closet into the living room. Ornaments clink softly, tinsel spills everywhere, and the artificial pine scent from the tree hits me full force.
Diane settles onto the couch, immediately directing operations like a general. “Careful with that box—those angels are fragile. And I don’t think we’ll need the snowman this year.”
“Yes, ma’am.” Nora salutes her before dragging the ladder toward the large living room window, garland looped over her arm.
I steady the ladder with one hand. From this angle, her jeans curve perfectly over her hips, the denim pulling just enough to make my grip tighten.
When she reaches the top, her sweater lifts, revealing a narrow strip of skin at her waist. I quickly redirect my attention to something safer—her hands, the ladder, literally anything else—and remind my lungs to keep doing their job.
She loops the garland over the curtain rod and then freezes. “Uh,” she says, glancing back. “Problem.” She tugs lightly. “My sweater’s caught on one of the ladder hooks. If I yank it, I’m going to rip a hole. I need both hands.”
“I’ll hold you so you don’t fall,” I say, stepping onto the ladder behind her.
There isn’t much room. There’s no way not to be close. My chest brushes her back, and she smells faintly of vanilla and clean laundry. As I reach for the ladder, my fingers skim her sides by accident, boxing her in, and she stills.
“Sorry,” I murmur.
“It’s fine.” Her voice is a touch too even as she eases the sweater free. For a second, neither of us moves. The ladder creaks softly. My breath grazes the back of her neck.
“I’ve got it,” she says quietly.
And still, I don’t step away right away. “Okay.” I step down first, offer her my hand, and she takes it without hesitation.
Once she’s back on solid ground, she exhales, then laughs, the tension dissolving. “I didn’t have heroic ladder rescue on my Christmas list. Turns out it’s a very attractive skill set.”
From the couch, Diane watches us with a knowing smile. “You two work very efficiently together.”
Nora shoots her a look. “We’re only decorating.”
“Mm-hmm.”
Not long after we finish tidying up the last of the decorations, Diane drifts off to sleep in the armchair, a half-finished mug of tea still in her hand. Nora gently takes it from her, tucks a blanket around her shoulders, and dims the lamp.
We retreat to the kitchen and make hot cocoa like two kids pretending we’re not emotionally vulnerable adults.
She adds cinnamon. I add far too many marshmallows, and she lets it happen.
We settle onto the living room floor, backs against the couch, mugs balanced on our knees.
Christmas lights blink softly around us, reflected in the ornaments overhead.
Nora exhales, long and slow. “Thanks for today.”
“You already thanked me.”
She shakes her head. “Not like this.” She nudges her shoulder against mine. “You didn’t have to come. Or bring dinner. Or… be good at all of this.”
“It was part of the deal,” I say, taking a sip.
Her fingers trace the rim of her mug. “She likes you. My mom.”
“I like her too.”
She watches the Christmas lights for a long moment. “You didn’t treat her like a problem.”
I frown. “Why would I?”
“People do.” Her tone stays casual, but the words land heavier. “They see the cane. Or the meds. Or the tired days. And suddenly everything becomes… delicate. Or inconvenient.”
“I didn’t feel either of those.”
“I noticed.” She swallows. “You talked to her like she was just… Diane. Someone who enjoys crossword puzzles, complains about reality TV, and steals my sweaters.” A quiet laugh slips out of her. Her knee brushes mine, and this time, she doesn’t move it. “I’m really glad you came.”
“I am too,” I say without thinking. “It was… nice. Being here.”
She bumps her shoulder into mine then settles against me. Then she tips her head onto my shoulder.
For a second, I freeze, afraid of doing the wrong thing. Then I let myself relax, tilting my head just slightly toward hers.
“I like you too,” she murmurs. “The best fake boyfriend I’ve ever had.”
My pulse flickers for a second before it goes dark, like a Christmas light finally burning out. I huff a laugh. “If I’m going to be good at anything, I’m glad it’s that.”
She snorts softly and squeezes my hand once. “Shut up and drink your cocoa, Pilot Boy.”
She doesn’t lift her head. And I don’t move at all.