Chapter 9 #2
“Good thing I’m not your real boyfriend, huh?”
Our eyes lock then, smiles faltering. His gaze drops to my mouth before he looks away and removes his hand.
“About that…”
His attention swivels right back to me. “Yeah?”
“I know this was supposed to be a onetime thing,” I start, suddenly hating the sound of my own voice. “And I know it didn’t exactly go amazingly for you at the fundraiser…” My throat tightens and my palms feel sweaty.
God, why do I feel like I’m fourteen and asking Caleb Fraser to the Valentine’s Dance all over again?
“But you need a fake boyfriend beyond tonight,” he finishes for me.
My anxiety shape-shifts into confusion. “How did you—?”
“Just a hunch.” He breaks eye contact, rubbing his thighs. “I have a good read on people, remember?”
“Right. Well, yeah, actually. But only for a few weeks—until the election. So the public thinks I’m in a stable, steady relationship. If you disappear now, it’ll look like I’m… having casual flings. I’m sorry. I should have realized—”
“Casual flings?” Miles frowns, his jaw clenching in the dim living room light. “Is that what your dad said to you?”
“Not in those exact words.”
The furrow in his brow deepens, the protective glimmer in his eyes from the gym back again. “What words did he use?”
Worse words.
“Doesn’t matter.” I wave him off.
He looks like he doesn’t agree, but he doesn’t push.
I study him for a long moment, my heart heavy with guilt for pulling him into all this. This man doesn’t owe me a thing. How could I ask for anything more, especially after what he went through tonight?
“Actually, forget it.” I push off the couch and head for the door. “I can’t ask you to do this.”
“Hey, whoa,” he starts, standing to get a step ahead of me before I can get too far. His hands slip to my arms, holding me in place. “Where are you going?”
“Miles,” I start, looking anywhere but into those magnetic eyes. “This is too much. It’s late and you’ve done more than enough to help me out. I’ll— I’ll figure something out with my dad. I should go.”
He doesn’t let go or move aside. “Hey, look at me.”
I can barely meet his gaze. When I finally do, there’s an openness in his expression that I could get lost in.
“I didn’t say no.” He dips his head. “We could do this.”
I start to protest, but the words catch in my throat.
“I mean, hey,” he adds, letting go of my arms, “We did alright tonight. The photographer seemed pretty happy. Maybe the press will, uh… want more?”
More.
His eyes slip to my mouth, and the memory of his lips brushing against mine sends a tingling sensation straight to my core.
“Anyway, I’m up for it. If you are.” I must not look convinced, because he adds, “And if you wanna leave”—he holds up his hands and steps back to give me a clear path—“I’m not gonna stop you. But I’ll give you a ride, alright? We can talk more in the truck. Just… lemme take you home.”
This man? At my house?
I swallow and nod, shoving away visions of being pinned to my bed under his tattooed chest.
When he disappears into his room to change, I drift toward the front door, kicking myself anew for pushing my way into his life like this.
Miles is newly sober; the last thing he needs is to be dragged into political drama or forced to live under my controlling father’s thumb.
He should be taking care of himself, not my tarnished public image.
It’s a good thing I’ve got a therapy session booked on Monday morning; I’ll have more than enough material to talk about after this week.
My attention snags on movement in my peripheral vision.
Miles’ bedroom door is open a crack, and a soft yellow glow spills out, casting a strip of light on the floor of the dark front hall.
I stare through the narrow opening as a sliver of muscle and tattooed skin disappears under a snug gray T-shirt.
My gaze falls and, when I catch him tugging on a pair of jeans, I hold my breath.
No sooner have I registered the sound of his zipper than he’s pulling open the door and stepping out, buckling his belt. A slow smirk plays at his lips when he realizes what I could see—what I was so obviously watching.
My cheeks flush hot, and that smirk splits into a full grin.
“Let’s go…”
When he doesn’t call me out, I exhale with relief.
He grabs a hoodie from a hook on the wall as he opens the front door, motioning for me to go first. I’m just stepping past him when—
“… ya big perv.”
I groan out a mortified laugh as he locks up and we head to his truck.
Miles manages to talk me down from my anxious state as he drives me home, and we hash out a few details of what fake dating could look like: being seen together out in public at least once a week until the election, doing whatever we can to present an image of committed stability, and avoiding anything that could compromise the Pete Brennan campaign.
We brainstorm sober-friendly dates: restaurants without bars, activities that don’t involve drinking, and family-friendly community events where we could be seen together, like Halloween Fest at Sonora Farm—a Lennox Valley tradition.
Then we’d call the whole thing off after Election Day.
Whether or not my father wins, there will be far less at stake for him after the votes are counted.
“There’d be no need to carry on with the ruse past then.” I glance at Miles’ shadowed figure in the driver’s seat.
“Right.” His grip twists on the steering wheel. “So we’d what, just… cut contact and go back to normal?”
“Yeah. I’d go back to my life, and you’d go back to yours,” I add. “Unless… you wanted to stay friends?”
Miles flicks his eyes my way, his expression inscrutable as he returns his gaze to the road. “Is that what we are now? Friends?”
I open my mouth to answer, but I don’t know what to say.
Are we friends?
The question hangs unanswered as we pull into my grandfather’s driveway. Miles cuts the engine and quickly jumps out into the night, rounds the front of the truck, and opens my door.
I take his offered hand, careful to step out without the high slit of my dress revealing too much.
“You’re quite the gentleman, huh?” I tease as I straighten.
“Oh, not even close,” he says with a low chuckle. It’s dark, but I don’t miss the playful glimmer in his eyes. “But I can pretend.”
“Are we really doing this?” I ask, my voice quiet.
“I think so, yeah.” He quirks a smile that looks more laid-back than I can manage right now. “You in?”
Stuffing down a whole host of qualms, I let the side of me that genuinely likes Miles take the wheel. Hanging out with him for a few weeks could be fun. And it doesn’t hurt that he’s easy on the eyes. I nod. “Yeah. Okay. I’m in.”
His broad grin has me in a choke hold for a moment. When I manage to shake it off, I climb the stairs to my front door ahead of him, feeling the burn of his gaze on my back with each step.
“Hey, uh, not sure how to say this,” he starts as we reach the porch.
I turn, concern tugging at me.
He continues, “But, uh, just so we’re clear from the start… I’m not in a position to date anyone. For real, I mean.”
My stomach tilts. “Of course! I didn’t— I wasn’t—”
Did he think I was after more?
“Like, I know you only need a fake boyfriend for the cameras and stuff, but I wanna make sure you know that, right now, I can’t offer anything more.”
“Me neither,” I rush to reassure him. “I’m not even remotely looking for a real boyfriend.”
“No?”
“God, no. After what happened with Fletcher? No. Nope.” I shake my head. “I don’t want another relationship.”
“Ever again?” he asks, his amusement turning to something more like concern.
“Pretty much.” I lean into the lie, hoping it’s camouflaging the aching void in my chest. “So bring on the cats and frumpy sweaters. It’s the spinster life for me.”
“C’mon,” he laughs, puffing a cloud into the chilly night, “you’re too pretty to be a spinster.”
“Oh, so you think I’m pretty?” My tone is teasing, but I can’t deny I’m grateful it’s dark enough to mask my flushed cheeks.
He laughs again, rubbing his jaw like he regrets letting that piece of information slip out. “No.”
Wait. What?
“No?” I scramble to school my features—cling to my dignity.
He meets my gaze. “I think you’re fucking stunning, Caroline.”
My chest feels like it’s full of hummingbirds beating their wings against my rib cage.
I’ve received my fair share of compliments about my looks—being in the public eye will invite that—but this simple praise from Miles feels different somehow.
And so does the way he’s looking at me. Appreciative, sure, but there’s something more simmering behind his eyes.
“Anyway,” he says with a definitive nod, leaning back on the porch railing. “It’s good we’re on the same page.” It’s like his words are trying to wrap this up, but his body is settling in to stay awhile.
I can’t deny I’m feeling a similar push and pull. Setting my clutch on a nearby ledge, I lift my eyes to Miles. “So, why aren’t you dating? For real, like you said.” Realizing how that might have sounded, I rush to add, “Just curious.”
“Uh, well, there’s this rule in AA. Well, more of a guideline, I guess, but they tell us not to get into any new relationships for the first year.”
“Why a year?”
He scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, looking thoughtful. “I think the idea is you need to get to know your sober self—kinda rebuild your identity without booze. Love yourself first, before you…” He trails off. “Point is, it takes time, y’know?”
“That makes sense.”
I can certainly understand needing to find yourself—find your footing. Feeling cold, I rub my arms.
“I ignored the advice before, actually, which wasn’t great. The first time I tried to quit drinking, I started dating someone right away and it blew up in my face. The breakup was pretty stressful. I kinda spiraled, and I relapsed pretty badly.”
My brows pinch at the pained look on his face. “I’m sorry.”