Chapter 11
CAROLINE
It’s almost a week before I see Miles again.
He’d texted the morning after the fundraiser to apologize for taking things too far, joked that his moves were a bit rusty, sent a GIF of Homer Simpson disappearing into a hedge, then asked if it was cool if we waited a few days before getting together again.
I have to admit, the obvious panic spiral was kinda sweet.
And I’d agreed. Of course I’d agreed. He’s not the only one who needed time to cool off. I’d been too worked up to sleep that night without a release, and desperate times had called for desperate measures. Perhaps a little too desperate.
Outside the narrow, brick-lined alley leading to El Taco Guapo, I scan the street for Miles and clutch his neatly folded hoodie against my chest. Not finding him anywhere, I shift the sweatshirt under one arm and pull out my phone.
I scroll back past the few messages we’ve exchanged since that kiss—that brain-melting, time-bending, world-warping kiss—and confirm I’ve got the time and place correct for our fake date.
I have. At a loss for what else to do while I wait, I reread his last messages from Sunday morning—for probably the twentieth time.
Miles
Promise to act like a gentleman when I see you next. Cage the beast and all that.
I really am sorry.
I know how I should react. I should accept his apology.
I should agree the kiss was too much, too far, too intense.
I should see Miles as a friend. A kind stranger who stumbled into a sticky situation and who—instead of bolting when I decided for us both that he could play the role of my new boyfriend—stepped up.
That’s what I should see. And I can almost get there. Sensible Caroline is at the ready with her notebook full of reasons and facts and logic.
He’s not available! she shouts. He’s just doing you a favor! she scolds. Stop thinking about kissing him!
She waves her infernal logic in my face with increasing fervor every time I slip back into the memory of Miles’ hands on my neck.
Every time I picture that hungry look in his eyes before our bodies slammed together.
Every time I foolishly give in to the urge to smell the hoodie he left behind.
His scent is subtle yet intoxicating. Clean but earthy—like soap with a hint of sandalwood.
My fingers clench and I brush my thumbs over the worn fabric, transported right back to the warmth of his arms.
Cage the beast? God, no.
Because that kiss released something inside me that had been caged, cowed, and stuffed down for far too long. Was it messy, foolish, and wrong? Most definitely. But it was also incredibly freeing. I liked tasting freedom. And, more than anything, I want another taste.
But he’s not dating right now. And neither am I. Although, I have to admit… dinner and a movie aren’t really top of mind.
“Caroline!” a familiar deep voice calls out from the street.
Startled, I snap my head up to find Miles grinning at me through the open window of his silver pickup. “Hey!”
Heat flushes my cheeks, probably from the small jolt of adrenaline.
Yes, definitely the adrenaline. Nothing to do with that backwards ball cap he’s wearing or the boyish smirk on his face.
Tearing his gaze from mine, he braces an arm behind the passenger-side headrest and throws the truck in reverse.
The way he parallel parks in front of me in one smooth, effortless maneuver has me equal parts jealous and turned on.
Why was that sexy? Do I have a competence kink?
Before he rolls up the window, I step closer, offering him the bundled hoodie. “You forgot this.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” He places it on the passenger seat. “Thanks. It’s um… It’s my favorite one. But you didn’t have to— You could’ve held onto it. Like, for a while or whatever. No big deal.”
I don’t quite know how to respond, and a loaded pause hangs in the air before he finally seems to snap out of it and climbs out. As he rounds his truck, I take a steadying breath.
“You look nice,” he says as he hops up on the curb. “I mean, you always look nice, but—”
“But?” I raise my brows, silently beckoning him to continue.
“But nothing,” he says. “I like your dress.”
“Oh, thanks.” I glance down at my open wool peacoat and the plaid pinafore dress peeking out underneath, smoothing it under my palms. “This one’s vintage, actually.”
“You always wear such cool outfits. Makes me feel like I should’ve tried a bit harder.” He runs a hand over his stomach, looking down at his clothes.
“Well,” I say, “I think you’re definitely passing the taco date vibe check.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his hip and aims a model-like smolder somewhere into the street beside us. “Like what you see, huh?” He bites his lip.
I suppress a laugh and narrow my eyes in thought, scanning his black hoodie and dark jeans. “Mmm, yes. I’m getting comfort, I’m getting casual…”
He tosses his head and gives me a goofy, over-the-top pose, complete with peace sign and broody pout.
Playing along, I ask, “So, what inspired this ensemble, Mr. Sharpe?”
“Hunger,” he deadpans, popping his hip to the other side. “For tacos.”
“Very nice. Very nice.” I nod sagely, struggling to keep a straight face. “And who are you wearing tonight?”
“I don’t even know, actually.” His eyes dance as he makes a grab over his shoulder, wrenching his hoodie around to check the label—only to drop it when he doesn’t find one.
“Shit, yanked the tag out. I mean…” He clears his throat, all casual nonchalance as he tugs his hoodie back into place.
“It’s an unknown designer. You wouldn’t have heard of them.
They’re, like, so edgy they don’t have a name yet. ”
“Ooh, underground. I like it.” I laugh through the last words, both of us dropping the act.
His goofball routine mesmerizes me for a moment; there’s something refreshing about being in the company of a man who doesn’t need to wear a mask of pretentious seriousness at all times.
“If any photographers are around tonight, I’m sure we just confused the fuck outta them,” he says, looking amused as he scans up and down the street.
But the reminder that someone could be watching us has our smiles waning.
For a second, I think Miles might step closer or kiss me—for the cameras, maybe—but the moment passes and he stuffs his hands in his pockets.
I swallow my disappointment, knowing it’s ridiculous.
“You hungry?” he asks.
I nod quickly. “Ravenous.”
Famous for being the smallest restaurant in Lennox Valley, El Taco Guapo is impossibly small, wedged into the side of the alleyway and down a handful of stairs.
It looks like an afterthought, as if it was carved out of the wall once the building was finished.
There are exactly four tiny tables, each covered in bold, floral-printed vinyl, with smudged metal napkin dispensers and a bottle of hot sauce on each one.
Savory aromas permeate the air and barely muffled hissing emanates from the kitchen, which is separated from the tiny dining area by a single swinging door.
Miles’ eyes are all over the place, bouncing around the cramped room as we squeeze into our seats.
He explains how the kitchen makes all the tortillas by hand and how, apparently, you have to know the inside scoop about the secret menu if you want to order the best tacos.
He’s got the enthusiasm of an overgrown kid as he sells me on the carnitas with the house-made hot sauce.
“They slow-cook the pulled pork and then pan-fry it so it crisps up. Caroline, seriously, they’re so fucking good. You have to get them.”
I do. And he’s right. They’re incredible. And so messy. I quickly discover there’s no way to appear ladylike while eating a greasy pulled-pork taco dripping with hot sauce and green salsa, and I awkwardly scramble for napkins to wipe the mess off my fingers.
“Hoooh my God.” I fan at my open mouth, which increasingly feels like it’s on fire. “So hot.”
Miles laughs around his bite. “You gonna survive?”
“Nope. Dying.” I reach for my water and take a long drink. “Might already be dead, actually. Can’t say for sure.”
“Here lies Caroline Brennan,” he drawls, his voice solemn and deep, “who tragically met her end at the hands of some mildly spicy food.”
“Mildly?” I echo, my eyes widening. “This is mild to you?”
“Maybe I’m just used to it.” He shrugs, taking another bite.
I dab a clean napkin at the edges of my watering eyes, trying not to smudge my makeup. “You’re not bothered by much, are you?”
Another shrug.
“How’d you get so comfortable in your skin?” When he tilts his head in confusion, I gesture to the alleyway outside. “Out there. The whole goofy fashion model routine.”
Miles wipes his hands on a napkin and sits back in his chair, looking hesitant.
“The palatable answer is I’ve always been a goofball.
My grandpa used to call me a ham when I was a kid.
I remember being confused about what he meant at first, thinking he was gonna eat me or something, because, like, who says that anymore, right?
My dad had to explain it meant I was funny.
Then I was like, well, shit, this is my entire personality now.
” He sits forward, leaning on his elbows, his gaze unfocused like he’s revisiting a memory.
“Grandpa was a cool old dude, though. He used to challenge us to make him laugh.”
“Us? Do you have siblings?” I ask.
“Yeah. An older brother, Jude. You?”
“Nope. Only child.”
He nods slowly, his expression assessing.
“What?” Self-consciousness has me sitting a little straighter; people always think it’s weird not to have had siblings growing up.
“Nothing.” He shakes his head.
I’m not sure I believe him, but I don’t push it. “So, what’s the unpalatable answer?”