Chapter 9
CAROLINE
I’ve had an hour to spiral on the ride back to town.
Miles left. He just… left.
Nothing about it makes sense.
He swore I could trust him. He was confident—cocky, almost—about how he could handle being my fake boyfriend. And the night had been going well. We’d been having fun, he’d gotten along with Adrian, he’d played along for the photographer, and… he kissed me.
Well, almost kissed me.
Oh, God, and he’d pulled it off perfectly. I can still feel the way he’d whispered against my cheek, the way his words had fallen like silk on my skin. “This okay?”
It had been more than okay. For a relatively chaste and very public half-kiss, it had left me breathless. And there’d been regret in his eyes when we’d gotten interrupted, like he felt the same way. Wanted more.
But, when I came back from helping Adrian with Portia Stanhope, Miles was just… gone.
I should never have asked him to do this. It was too much.
Still, the need for answers tugs at me, and I scroll back through our texts.
Me
Where did you go?
Miles
Sorry. Something came up.
I can explain in person.
Can you swing by my place on your way home tonight?
Me
After midnight?
Miles
Anytime is fine. I owe you an explanation.
When the car rolls up to Miles’ building, I tell my driver not to wait. He gives me a look in the rear-view mirror but says nothing. Let him think what he wants; it’ll only help solidify the story that Miles and I are a real couple if he thinks I’m spending the night.
Dad had pulled me aside tonight and made it clear I’m in the doghouse for showing up with Miles instead of Fletcher.
Despite his reservations—and his frustration over losing control of the narrative—he made clear what should have been obvious to me all along: this new boyfriend of mine can’t just disappear without fueling the very rumor I was trying to dispel.
Now that I’ve been photographed with Miles a second time—and destroyed any ambiguity about our so-called relationship—I’ve committed us both to making this look real until after the election.
The fact that Miles took off on me earlier isn’t exactly boosting my confidence that he’ll want to keep helping me out.
Neither is the uncertainty in his voice when he buzzes me in.
The elevator up to the fourth floor squeaks slightly, then the door opens with a grinding thump.
I’m still getting my bearings, inspecting the number on each door I pass, when I hear Miles’ deep voice behind me. “Over here, fancy girl.”
I turn and—
Ohhhhh boy.
He’s standing in his doorway with his arms crossed over his chest—his bare, heavily inked chest. A cascade of tattoos snakes over his left bicep and shoulder, spanning from his collarbone down to wrap around his rib cage.
It’s not a single design but many smaller ones in different artistic styles, somehow merged and blended into a cohesive whole.
I can barely process the details, though, because navy blue sweatpants are slung low on his hips, and damn if he isn’t wearing the heck out of those sweats.
I swallow, ripping my eyes away from his skin. “Were you sleeping?”
“Not yet.” He lets his arms fall, tucking his hands into his pockets. The movement tugs his pants slightly lower and all coherent thoughts seep out of my brain when I notice the treasure trail that disappears below his waistband.
Catching myself again, I snap my gaze upward.
“You gonna come in?” There’s a hint of amusement in his expression. He definitely caught me looking.
“Yeah, okay.” Hugging my arms, I rub them to dispel the chill still clinging to my skin and slip into his apartment.
I take a moment to look around. His place is small and sparsely furnished, like he hasn’t been here long.
Or hasn’t cared to decorate much, maybe.
Small piles of clutter are scattered here and there, but it’s not messy.
There’s a simple, lived-in warmth to it that suits him. What little I know of him, anyway.
“Can I get you a glass of water?” he asks, closing the door. “Or maybe… I dunno, a sweatshirt? You look frozen. I could make tea or—”
“No, I’m fine.” I can’t help but envy how comfortable he seems to be despite being shirtless. The contrast between my glittery dress and what he’s wearing—or not wearing, rather—is stark. Was he in bed? Did he just throw on whatever he could find before I came up? That would mean…
Great. Now I’m picturing him shirtless and pantsless.
So… very… pantsless.
“You left,” I say, pushing away the image of Miles naked.
“Yeah, I did.” He doesn’t elaborate, though my confusion and curiosity must be obvious. “Sorry ’bout that.”
“Why?” I almost whisper.
“Uh, how long you got?” he asks, tilting his head toward the door. “Is your driver waiting out front, or—?”
“I sent him home.”
“Oh.” He nods. Then, the implication dawns on him. “Oh.”
I hold out a hand, eyes wide. “That’s not what I— I didn’t mean to imply any…”—a grin splits his face as he watches me scramble—“I wasn’t planning to stay, I just—”
“It’s okay, Caroline. I can give you a lift home.”
“No, no, you don’t need to. I—” I sputter. “I can get a cab or—”
God, I can’t even finish a full sentence around this man.
“Like, after we…” He makes a generic gesture between us. My eyes must bug out, because the corner of his mouth starts to twitch. “After we talk.”
“Yes! That’s all I came here to do, I swear.”
“Just messin’ with you.” Smirking, he guides me toward the couch. “C’mere.”
We sink down onto the cushions, and I take a moment to un-fluster myself. “So? Why’d you take off earlier?”
He looks like he can’t quite find the words.
“Was it something I said? Or did?” I ask quietly, the memory of our almost-kiss slipping back into focus yet again.
Did he not like it?
“God, no,” he says quickly. He scrubs his hands down his tired face. “Shit. Is that what you thought?”
I shrug. “I didn’t know what to think, Miles. You just disappeared.”
A muscle works in his jaw. “It was shitty of me to take off on you. Especially after I said you could trust me.”
I don’t disagree with him. “How’d you even get home?”
“Took a cab about halfway. Then my brother picked me up.” When I give him an expectant look, he goes on, his voice quiet. “Okay, so, the reason I left… Fuck.” He closes his eyes for a moment. “I’m an alcoholic, Caroline.”
“What?” I search his face.
“I’m sober. I’m in AA. And I’m doing good; I actually found a meeting online tonight when I got home, which helped… but yeah. I haven’t been sober that long.”
Why didn’t he say something?
“How long has it been?” I ask quietly.
He runs a hand through his shaggy dark hair and sits forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “’Bout ten months?”
Dropping my gaze to the scratched hardwood floor, I slouch back against the couch cushions as the puzzle pieces click into place.
Drinks were all around tonight, offered up on literal silver platters from the moment we arrived.
I can only imagine how intense the temptation must have been.
“Miles, I’m so sorry. I never would’ve asked you to come if I’d known. ”
He turns sharply toward me. “Hey, no. Nothing about this is on you. You didn’t know.”
“Why’d you agree to come? You must’ve known there’d be drinks there.”
Amusement plays on his lips. “Well, I was kinda… voluntold.”
I grimace at the reminder. Still, he could have backed out. I gave him chances to back out.
Miles grows more serious. “Plus, it’s not realistic to avoid it completely.”
“Yes, but—”
“Look, when I saw you with Fletcher at the gallery… He obviously made you fucking uncomfortable. So I thought I could… I dunno. Help you out, I guess.”
“You didn’t have to do that for me.”
“Yeah, but I wanted to.” He meets my eyes. “I didn’t like the idea of you stuck with him any more than you did.”
“But it meant putting yourself in harm’s way.”
“Thought I could handle it.” He pushes up from the couch, then paces a few steps toward the small galley kitchen, giving me a full view of his muscular back and another chaotic-yet-cohesive collection of tattoos: wavy, twisting kelp fronds; a feather, a cartoon character I can’t place, and more I don’t catch before he faces me again.
“Thought I could just steer clear of the bar. Didn’t realize they’d be shoved in my face like that,” he says, leaning his hips against the counter behind him. “And then when…” He rubs at the back of his neck, not quite able to look me in the eye. “It just got to be too much.”
I study him, getting the feeling there’s something he’s not telling me.
“Couldn’t risk it, y’know?” he continues. “By staying any longer. I’m sorry. Again. I hope you understand. This is… this is the only way this can work for me. I have to put sobriety first.”
My eyes widen. “Oh my God, of course!”
“Even if it means running out on my fake girlfriend like an asshole, apparently.” He looks apologetic as he returns to the couch and slumps down beside me. Rubbing his hand over the koi tattoo on the back of his arm, he turns to me. “Your dickbag ex give you any shit after I left?”
“No. He was probably busy hitting on some poor, unsuspecting woman.” I roll my eyes. “Or women.”
“Man, that guy’s a real piece of shit.”
I let out a resigned laugh. “Tell me about it.”
His gaze licks over my collarbone, my neck, somehow heating my skin. “It’s his loss, you know.”
“What is?”
“You,” he says simply—like it should be obvious.
My lips part, but I have no idea what to say. “Y-you don’t know that,” I finally stammer out. “You barely know me.”
“Yeah, but I’ve got a good read on people. Always have.”
I tilt my head in question.
“It’s like an ADHD spidey-sense or some shit.”
“You have ADHD?”
“Yup.” He nods slowly. “And I know what you’re thinking: ADHD, addiction… Man, this guy is the whooole package.”
My laughter takes us both by surprise and he gives my thigh a playful nudge with his, then catches it with his hand, squeezing gently. His palm lingers, warming my skin through my dress.