Chapter 5 #2
“I was joking, to be clear. I don’t go around punching assholes. Like, generally speaking.”
“Okay,” I say.
For a moment, we just stand there, holding eye contact, and a knot of tension takes root in my belly.
What was I thinking?
It’s one thing to be caught on camera talking to a hot stranger, but it’s entirely next level to lean into a flimsy rumor and invite him into my family drama—while under scrutiny from the media, no less.
But the thought of spending a phony romantic evening at Fletcher’s side seemed monumentally worse than taking a chance on said hot stranger.
“Sorry, again, for dragging you into this. It’s not too late to back out.”
“No way. Now I gotta see what all the fuss is about.” He winks, and that smirk is back, pulling my attention to his lips, the square line of his jaw, and the cleft at the center of his chin under all the stubble.
I school my features, trying to shake off the way Miles somehow flusters me without even trying.
This is business. Practical. A PR move to get the press off my back. Nothing more.
“Are you completely sure?” I ask.
“Yeah. You’re stuck with me now, fancy girl.”
The number of times I have to pull my attention away from the construction site across the street after Miles leaves is borderline ludicrous.
He needed to get back to work, so we’d quickly exchanged numbers and I’d promised to text him about Saturday.
Then, I’d watched him jog across the street—definitely not admiring how he looked from behind in those worn jeans.
A few patrons wander in and I show them around, grateful for the distraction, although I find myself motioning at the paintings on autopilot, not really thinking too hard about the well-rehearsed spiel coming out of my mouth.
Despite myself, my eyes drift, once again seeking out a glimpse of Miles through the front window.
In a truly embarrassing turn of events, my breath catches when I think I spot him carrying a load of lumber over one shoulder.
What’s next? Swooning? Fainting?
I need to get my head on straight before Saturday night.
This fundraiser is going to be… rough. The idea of Miles mingling with my parents doesn’t exactly give me warm fuzzies.
And with Fletcher there, probably throwing me salty glances at every opportunity, I know I’m in for a world of awkwardness.
At least Adrian will be in my corner; God knows I need an ally in this whole mess.
But spending the evening with Miles? For some reason, that part doesn’t feel as fraught. There’s an easy openness to him—this up-for-anything energy that’s both wholly unfamiliar and almost magnetic. He makes me believe I could be like that. Maybe I used to be.
And his deep voice… The soft sibilance each time he lands on an S. When he drops his voice low, it’s like the ocean waves rolling gently over pebbles, somehow ragged and smooth at the same time. Rough with texture but time-worn, like any edges have been eroded away.
Okay, so, swooning and fainting might not be entirely off the table.
But who just spontaneously agrees to go on a fake date to a fundraiser they know nothing about? I can’t tell if he’s a fool or my savior. Heck, maybe he’s both.
When I get home from work, Sadie’s taken Grandpa for a walk and the house is quiet. I’m grateful for the silence so I can figure out what I’ve gotten myself into. What I’ve dragged Miles into.
I pull out my phone.
Me
You sure you’re up for this fake date thing?
I try to bite back a smile when three dots immediately start to bounce on my screen.
Green flag.
Miles
We fooled that dickhead at the gym, didn’t we?
Figure we can do it again.
Images of Miles in his gym gear rush into focus. Oh, God. He’s gonna look good in a tux.
Then my stomach drops when I realize I forgot to tell him about the dress code.
Me
It’s a black tie event. Will that be a problem?
Miles
Nah, don’t worry, I clean up nice.
I bet he does. He’s got this rugged, tousled-hair thing going where he looks like he’s just tugged on a worn T-shirt between cups of coffee and a walk in the forest with his dog. Probably some derpy rescue mutt with a tongue bigger than its face.
Anxiety once again wraps around my chest. I don’t even know his last name, for God’s sake. Does he have a dog? Siblings? A meth lab?
I try to talk myself down from freaking out. Meth dealers probably don’t hit the gym before seven in the morning—or need to work construction jobs.
My thumbs fly over the screen.
Me
What’s your last name? And your address?
Miles
You gonna run a background check or something?
I can’t tell if he’s serious or not.
Should I tell him there’s a real chance my father will do exactly that?
Me
I figured these are the basic facts I would know about my own boyfriend.
And I need to know where to pick you up on Saturday.
He sends his address, and I quickly save it to his contact info for later.
Miles
I was joking. It’s Sharpe. Miles Sharpe.
(Just getting into character for Saturday.)
Me
I can practically hear the raised eyebrow from here.
Miles
Nice. I tried extra hard to pop that brow.
And don’t worry, no criminal history.
Actually, full disclosure, I did shoplift a candy bar once in middle school.
Me
Really?
Miles
Yup. Coulda gotten away with it too, but I felt so guilty I couldn’t even eat it.
Slept like shit that night and confessed everything to my mom in the morning.
Me
What did she do?
Miles
Made me take it back.
Me
Nice move. She sounds like a great mom.
The easy rhythm of our back-and-forth stutters to a halt when he doesn’t respond right away. Ten, twenty, thirty seconds go by as I frown down at my phone.
Was it something I said?
Finally, he starts typing again. Then stops. Then starts again. The on-again-off-again nature of my relationship with those three little dots is getting worrisome. I exhale with relief when the text finally comes through.
Miles
You’re driving Saturday? Assumed I’d pick you up.
The change of subject surprises me, but I decide not to read into it.
Me
Not necessary. My driver will take us into the city.
Miles
Wait. Your driver?
Shit, you got a butler too?
Me
Very funny. No butler. And I only have a driver for events like this.
Miles
Wow. I think you just out-fancied yourself.
Am I in over my head here?
Me
I told you it was black tie!
Don’t make me use the facepalm emoji!
Miles
Whoa there, holster those big guns, partner. I told you I clean up nice!
The mental image of Miles in a tux swims back into my mind, and I bite my lip.
Miles
Don’t stress. I can do fancy.
Can he, though? I’ve only ever seen him in gym clothes or dirty construction gear.
Oh, God. What if he thinks fancy means clean jeans and a flannel?
I need to relax. He’s not clueless; the way he stood up for me at the gym proved that much. And the internet exists; he can find guidance on how to dress if he needs it. I don’t need to micromanage his clothing choices.
But my uncertainty gets the better of me, and I tap out another text.
Me
If you have any trouble figuring out what to wear, I can help.
Miles
Are you kidding? I’ve already got my monocle polished and my top hat…
What? My shoulders tense. I’m pretty sure he’s joking. But, at the same time, I’m not entirely sure.
Miles
…brushed. Did you know that’s how you clean a top hat? Had to look it up.
His next text is a winky face emoji.
I drop my shoulders in relief.
Okay. Definitely joking.
Just to be sure, I fire back another text, aiming for a far more casual tone than I can muster right now.
Me
If you’re taking fashion cues from Mr. Peanut, we may have a problem.
Miles
Shit, she’s onto me!
Nah, relax fancy girl. I got this. Promise I won’t embarrass you.