Chapter 17 Cupid Is Cancelled
Seventeen
Cupid Is Cancelled
Nora
Ever since New Year’s Eve, I’ve been keeping my distance from Miles. I wouldn’t say I’m avoiding him. Okay. I’m absolutely avoiding him.
I still reply when he texts, but I never initiate.
I don’t check in, send him random drone memes, ask about his day, or vent about my latest OneDate meltdown.
All because the New Year’s Eve kiss refuses to leave me alone.
It ambushes me in the worst places—while I’m debugging code, restocking the bar, brushing my teeth—my brain helpfully replays the exact way his fingers dimpled my waist. Or how easily my body fit against his.
And especially his lips pressed against mine. Soft, yet in control.
None of it felt like practice. It felt… real.
And real is dangerous. Real is how you end up hoping for things you already know won’t work.
Real is what stays long enough to matter and then leaves when things get hard.
Besides, this isn’t about me. It’s about him.
Miles needs real dates. A woman who isn’t an emotionally tangled mess with commitment issues, a mom with a chronic illness, and a brain that treats vulnerability like a suspicious pop-up ad.
He needs confidence. Practice. Someone who doesn’t flinch when something feels good. He doesn’t need me.
While working a closing shift at Porter’s, my phone buzzes with a message. Since it’s slow, I pull it out and see it’s from Miles.
Miles
I have great news! I got offered a technical mapping contract job in Arizona. It’s a pretty big job. I’ll be gone for the rest of January and most of February.
I read his words twice. My stomach twists with an uncomfortable mix of ache and relief. Distance. Time. A clean break from whatever this almost-something was becoming. This is good.
Nora
That’s amazing, Miles! Congratulations. That sounds like a huge opportunity for you.
Miles
Thank you. I ran the numbers twice and it’s… objectively a very good career decision.
Miles
I’ll still have my phone. We’ll be in different time zones, but I can text when I’m not flying or processing data.
Nora
Of course. That makes sense.
Miles
I know things have been a little quieter lately, so I didn’t want you to think I just disappeared.
Nora
I appreciate you telling me. Safe travels, okay?
Miles
I will. And, uh… if you have any OneDate crises while I’m gone, or anything, I’m still here.
Nora
I’ll keep that in mind.
Nora
Congratulations again, Miles.
I shove my phone back into my pocket. A Miles detox.
I won’t miss him. I’ll barely notice. Instead, I’ll focus on my app.
On Mom. Or on work. On literally anything except how his laugh sounds when he forgets to filter himself.
And I definitely won’t open OneDate and click on his profile to see how many women have requested him—or how many dates he’s arranged.
Definitely not. This is fine. Healthy even.
This is me being a responsible adult. I just wish being responsible didn’t feel so much like losing something I never technically had.
Sleep dodged me all night—partly because of Miles, partly because OneDate refuses to behave. After half a pot of coffee and an alarming number of Atomic Fireballs, I managed to put out the major fires. The minor ones, though, kept popping up like a relentless game of whack-a-mole.
By Friday night, Porter’s hits hard. It’s the bar’s annual Cupid Is Cancelled: Anti-Valentine’s Day Party, which is always packed, always loud, and since I’m dateless anyway, I might as well work.
Glasses clink too loudly, the spray gun burns icy against my palm, and all the voices blur into one demanding roar as everyone rushes the bar.
I’m pretty sure I’m an octopus short six arms.
“Another beer!”
“No lime.”
“Extra lime.”
“Shots—make ’em strong.”
“Two Sin Bins!”
Orders crash into me from every direction.
People lean over the bar as if that’ll get my attention—except it just guarantees I serve the person next to them first. Beck rattles a shaker next to me.
Someone laughs too loudly near the dartboard.
The TV over the bar blasts USA against Finland Olympic hockey commentary.
My hands go on autopilot—tap, garnish, pour, wipe, repeat.
I’m mid-pour when another Sin Bin order comes in, and I’m already cursing Dessa—occasional-bartender-turned-baseball-girlfriend to catcher Garrett Dawson—for ever convincing us this drink needed to be a special.
Once I finally get a second to breathe, I start wiping down the bar when Beck slides in beside me, bumping his hip against mine.
“You’re glowing tonight.”
“It’s sweat,” I reply, swiping my forehead with the back of my hand.
He grins. “Sexy.”
I roll my eyes. “Everything is sexy to you.”
“That’s not true. Only people who can multitask under pressure while smelling like vanilla and hops.”
I flick a bar rag at him. “Charming.”
“Always.” He leans an elbow on the bar and watches me with that easy I know I’m pretty confidence he was born with.
Beck is the kind of guy who looks good doing absolutely nothing—defined forearms and broad shoulders without the bulk, a tattoo peeking above his collar, and the cherry on top, a lazy smile that promises trouble he’d never apologize for. My type.
He watches me pour a margarita with way too much interest for someone who’s supposed to be restocking limes. “Need help?”
“You’re supposed to be cutting fruit.”
“You’re supposed to be having fun.”
“I’ll put that on my to-do list.”
The corner of his mouth curves upward. “Put me on there too.”
I snort-laugh before I can stop myself. “Wow. Smooth.”
He shrugs. “Just speaking truths.”
“Mm-hmm,” I murmur, focusing very seriously on salting the rim.
He steps closer, lowering his voice. “You know I’m flirting, right?”
“Yes.”
Which is the problem. Because this should feel good.
Familiar. Easy. Beck is fun. Beck is uncomplicated.
Beck is the kind of guy I used to flirt with for sport.
Six months ago, I did exactly that. Now it’s different.
All I can think about is how different flirting feels with someone who doesn’t send my pulse into a tailspin just by existing.
I turn to grab a bottle from the shelf. When I spin back, he’s closer—close enough that his whiskey and oak cologne curls between us. Close enough that another inch would violate several of Jake’s workplace guidelines.
“You’ve been distracted lately,” he says, softer now. “New guy?”
My heart stutters. Does he mean Miles? Would he even know?
“No,” I lie, because the truth is messy and involves fake dating, drones, and a kiss that wrecked my sleep schedule.
Beck studies my face, like he’s searching for a crack. “You sure?”
Before I can answer, a customer waves an empty beer in the air. I step away, grateful for the interruption.
For the rest of the night, we perform an awkward dance—me avoiding being within six feet of him, Beck somehow always ending up within arm’s reach.
Under normal circumstances, I would’ve been the one initiating.
Hell, that’s exactly what I did when he first started working here.
Now I’m giving him the cold shoulder as if he committed a crime.
And the worst part? I don’t even know how to explain it without sounding completely unhinged.
Thankfully, the night stays busy enough that there’s no room for conversation.
Then, suddenly, it’s closing time—and we’re alone.
The bar feels different when it’s quiet.
The neon beer sign hums louder against the silence, and the rattle of ice in the machine echoes through the room.
My muscles ache, and my head is foggy from too little sleep and too much caffeine.
Beck and I restock the coolers behind the bar. When he steps up beside me, the air shifts. His gaze drops.
Oh no. Oh no no no.
“Nora,” he murmurs, careful tension edging into his tone. “You ever think about—”
I know where this is going. We’ve hovered near this line before.
Even brushed against it once or twice. But now, when he leans in, something inside me caves in because I shouldn’t be thinking about Miles.
About his stupid, adorable smile. The way my stomach flipped watching him help my mom feel free again.
Beck moves an inch closer. Slow. “Nora?” he murmurs, as if he’s giving me one last chance to meet him halfway.
My breath catches, but not for him. There’s no spark. Electric current. There’s nothing. Because all I can picture is Miles.
Beck leans in again. The space between us thins to a thread. His breath brushes the corner of my mouth. My body goes still. Not because it wants him, but because it doesn’t know what to do.
His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles lightly on the bar beside my hip, boxing me in without touching. One more inch and—
“Beck. What are you doing?”
He exhales. “I was going to kiss you. But shit is that an asshole move? Should I have asked you out first?”
“No.” My pulse spikes, flashing warning signs behind my ribs. “Normally, I’m very much a kiss-first, figure-it-out-later person, but I—” The truth tumbles out before I can stop it. “I’m just… not looking for a relationship right now.”
Beck watches me for a long moment, his expression shifting from hurt to practiced calm, like he’s too good at pretending this doesn’t sting. “I didn’t say anything about a relationship. It can be just a little fun.”
I open my mouth to respond, but my throat feels thick. Because I do want fun. I want uncomplicated and easy. I just don’t think I want it with Beck anymore. My stomach refuses to flip for the man standing right in front of me and instead does it for someone who isn’t even here.
Beck steps back, giving me space, as if he’s realizing he lost a game he never actually got to play. “Shit. Sorry. I just thought—” He gestures between us. “I’m sorry. I read that wrong. And Nora?”
I force myself to meet his eyes.
“If he doesn’t treat you right…” A slow grin tugs at his mouth, like he can’t help himself. “I’m still here. And I’m not opposed to being used in a revenge plot.”
Despite everything, a laugh slips out of me. I shake my head. “You’re impossible.”
“I try.” He turns his back to the cooler like he didn’t just make me second-guess all my life choices.
I keep restocking and pretending I’m fine while convincing myself the tightness in my chest is only exhaustion—not… anything else. But as I slide bottles into place and line the labels forward, I’m not thinking about how Beck almost kissed me. I’m thinking about how Miles already did.
When I get home from work, the apartment is quiet.
Too quiet. The kind of silence that makes every thought echo like it’s been dropped down a well.
I toss my keys onto the counter, kick off my shoes, and flop face-first onto the couch.
The bar scent of citrus and beer still clings to me, mixing with Beck’s whiskey and oak cologne.
Ugh. I groan into the throw pillow. Today was a day.
A long one. A confusing one. A day where Beck almost kissed me, and I didn’t want him to.
That’s the part I can’t stop circling. Because Beck is fun and smells good.
He’s a walking thirst trap. Exactly my type.
But tonight? Nothing. Maybe a flicker of old habit.
But attraction? The real kind? The kind that drops your stomach and turns your brain to static?
Nope. And the worst part—the part I can’t say out loud without making it real—is that I know exactly why.
I roll onto my back and stare at the ceiling.
It’s Miles. Of course it’s Miles. Dorky, soft-hearted, anxious, adorable Miles.
The guy who organizes his shoes but will have fun in a bounce house.
Who brought snacks, but not just any snacks, ones my mom could actually eat.
Miles, whose eyes soften every time he looks at me like he can’t quite believe I’m real.
Miles, who tries so hard, means so well, and has no idea he’s slowly convincing me that what I want and what I need might be two very different things.
I press both hands over my face. This is a problem. A huge, messy, feelings-shaped problem. I can’t be attracted to Miles. He’s too… good. Too hopeful. Too kind. He’s the kind of man who doesn’t realize he deserves to be chosen. And I don’t want to be the person who hurts him.
I’ve spent years carefully constructing my walls to keep my life orderly. Predictable. Safe. Miles didn’t crash through them. He quietly slipped in instead, like sunlight through the blinds. And it infuriates me how easily—how effortlessly—he got inside.
I groan. What’s wrong with me? I drop my hands and whisper into the dark, “Don’t fall for him.”
But I already know I’m too late.