Chapter 16 I Hate You, Brain
Sixteen
I Hate You, Brain
Nora
When I open the door, I take a moment to fully appreciate the man standing before me.
His dark navy suit fits as if it were custom-tailored.
Crisp white shirt. No tie. Top button undone.
Aliens have abducted the Miles I know and replaced him with someone straight off the cover of GQ: Sexy Nerd, Minnesota Edition.
He blinks when he sees me. “Hi.” His hands hover at his sides. “You look…” He clears his throat, clearly wrestling with language. “Really stunning.”
I smile. I like compliments, but I love watching Miles struggle with adjectives more. “You clean up pretty well yourself, Pilot Boy. Honestly, I didn’t think you owned anything that wasn’t khaki.”
He laughs. “I figured my khaki suit might not be appropriate.”
“You own a khaki suit?”
He shrugs, smirking, then offers his elbow. “Shall we?”
I lock the door and slip my arm through his. “I still want proof this khaki suit exists.”
Downtown is already buzzing with holiday lights strung across the streets, snow piled in neat banks, people bundled in coats. The Bluestone Group New Year’s Gala is one of the biggest, most exclusive events of the year in Harbor Highlands and somehow, I’m walking straight into it with Miles.
At coat check, he helps me out of my coat without fumbling, folds it once, and hands it to the attendant before offering his arm.
I hook mine through his, and it hits me all at once—how different he feels tonight.
More grounded. More sure of himself. His shoulders are squared with confidence.
Even his glasses sit differently, pushed higher on his nose.
This is still Miles, unmistakably so—but something about him has settled and clicked into place.
Standing beside him feels less like pretend and more like an actual date.
As we step into the ballroom, twinkling lights spill from the ceiling, resembling soft constellations.
White-clothed tables stretch across the room, each centerpiece perfectly arranged.
Somewhere to my left, a jazz band swings into an upbeat number, the sound humming through my ribs.
Before we can claim a table, Trey and Rylee spot us.
A long, low wolf whistle leaves Trey. “Whoa. You look good.”
“Thanks. It’s the dr—” I start, but Trey pushes past me.
“You’re looking sharp,” Trey grips Miles’s shoulders and inspects his suit. “Is this new? No more brown polyester?”
I glance at Miles, brows raised, and he smirks.
Trey announces they’re grabbing drinks and they both disappear into the crowd. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Rylee turns to me, eyes narrowed with delighted suspicion. “Sooo, you’re his date. Again.”
“He needed a favor.”
“Like the last time you swooped in to save him?”
“Something like that.”
She crosses her arms, amused. “You know, since I’ve known you, you’ve gone on more fake dates with Miles than real ones with literally anyone else.”
My lips press into a thin line. I don’t have an explanation either. Perhaps I slipped, hit my head, and fell into an alternate universe, and this is just… my life now. “It’s easy with Miles,” I say. “Uncomplicated. And anyway, we’re just—”
“Friends?” she cuts in, smirking.
My shoulders tense.
“When someone says ‘just friends,’” she continues, lowering her voice, “it’s usually code for ‘we have underlying feelings and absolutely no idea what to do with them.’ Trust me. I’ve tried the just-friends thing.”
The room feels a little warmer than it did a second ago. “There is no underlying anything happening between us.”
For months, Rylee denied her attraction to Trey, even shoving him firmly into the friend zone, which somehow turned into friends with benefits. Then she got pregnant. Now? Trey is not only the best partner she could’ve asked for but an incredible dad to their two kids.
She tilts her head toward Trey, who’s still talking to Miles, except now a woman in a glittering red dress has joined them.
She leans in close, her hand settling on Miles’s arm.
Something sharp sparks inside me. A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes, and I intercept him mid-step, taking two without asking.
“Oh, thanks.” Rylee reaches out, and I spin away.
“These are both for me.”
She laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
The night blurs into small talk, appetizers, and an unexpectedly captivating lecture from Trey about home brewing. Miles checks in on me throughout the evening, always close enough that no one questions whether we’re together—which is the point. Except it doesn’t feel fake.
As midnight approaches, the band shifts into slow and romantic songs. People drift toward the dance floor with their full champagne flutes, eyes flicking to the countdown screens as they begin to glow.
“Should we…” I gesture vaguely toward the crowd.
“Kiss?” he asks.
“It’s tradition,” I say lightly. “It’d be weird if we were the only ones who didn’t.”
He hesitates, eyes searching my face like he’s running an internal risk assessment. “We don’t have to.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
His answer is immediate, and my heart flutters. The countdown begins.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
He steps closer, his hand settling at my waist. Electricity hums through me as each fingertip presses into my dress.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
I lift my hands to his chest. His heartbeat is fast—matching mine.
Four.
Three.
Two.
We hover, a breath apart, the room swelling with cheers.
One.
Confetti rains down as his lips meet mine, soft at first. Then the crowd erupts, and something in him shifts. His hand firms at my back, mine curls into his lapel, and the kiss deepens, slow, warm, and very much not pretend.
When we finally pull apart, my brain stops working altogether.
I need a drink. Or oxygen. Or a step-by-step guide on how to act normal after kissing someone like that in front of half the city.
I spot a server nearby, grab a champagne flute, and take a reckless sip—mostly to keep my hands occupied so they don’t find their way back to Miles.
The drive to my apartment is quiet, but it’s the charged kind of silence that buzzes louder than music.
“Miles,” I say softly.
He glances over. “Yeah?”
“I had fun tonight.”
“So did I.” His hands tighten briefly on the steering wheel before relaxing again.
There are a hundred things I could say—and just as many reasons not to. “This was all part of the practice, right?” I add, forcing the words to sound casual. “We kind of got caught up in the moment.”
“Right. Practice.” That single word lands heavier than the kiss did.
When we reach my apartment, he walks me to the door. I fumble with my keys longer than necessary before the lock finally clicks open. When I turn back, Miles is standing close—just a little too close.
“Goodnight, Nora.”
“Goodnight, Miles.”
I step inside and close the door, resting my forehead against the wood.
The apartment is quiet. My heartbeat is not.
My fingers drift to my lips; I can still feel him there.
Practice. That was the deal. The word we agreed on.
So why does my chest feel tight, as if I just sprinted a mile?
And why do my fingers still remember exactly where they were an hour ago?
I kick off my shoes and faceplant onto the bed, muffling a very undignified grunt. Miles deserves someone just as put-together and brilliant as he is. I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling, and press a hand to my face.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
My brain responds by replaying the last four hours in vivid detail. I hate you, brain.