Chapter 6
six
“WILDEST DREAMS” — TAYLOR SWIFT
Tavey
The wedding reception starts at five o’clock in the afternoon.
Since the drive from Austin to Saddle Creek is several hours, Miller said he would pick me up at nine, which should give us plenty of time to reach the venue, check in to our respective rooms, and change for the reception.
Since Mathew and Geeta have booked the entire venue, they arranged early check-in for all the guests, so we’ll be able to get into our rooms at noon.
I’m glad Miller had already reserved a room at the venue, also. Yes, I could have canceled my room if he’d wanted to drive back after the reception, but I am glad I don’t have to wear my costume on the drive. I totally would have because … well, any excuse to make and wear a costume!
This is easier.
Verifying that we were both staying (and in separate rooms!) was only slightly excruciating and involved only marginal foot-in-mouth moments. But, let’s face it, I’ve known Miller long enough that my ability to ramble my way into a conversational corner should no longer surprise him.
My apartment is on the third floor and, like all apartments in Texas, there are no elevators. It’s safer than a first floor apartment (according to Cosmo and myTaekwondo instructor). But, I never expect anyone to walk up all those steps.
So I told Miller to text when he arrived and I’ll come down.
I’m ready by eight-thirty—which in and of itself is shocking. Even though I’m an early riser, I’m never ready on time, let alone early!
I know why I’m ready early. It’s nerves. Inexplicable, confusing nerves.
I know, logically, I shouldn’t be nervous. After all, today could mean nothing.
Miller offered to drive to the wedding venue as a matter of convenience, nothing more.
It’s certainly not a date. Unless it is a date.
Do I wish it were a date?
Yes, probably. Definitely.
But Miller doesn’t know that I have a crush on him. He’d be horrified. Yes, we’re work friends. But nothing more. So there is absolutely no reason for me to be nervous.
Despite that, I’ve had a knot of anxiety in my stomach for the past couple of weeks. A knot that no amount of costume-planning has dissipated.
I’m mostly ready and pacing with my phone in my hand, waiting for his text, when there’s a knock on my door.
I stop in my tracks, heart pounding, and whirl toward the door.
Surely it’s not... Does he even have my apartment number?
I nearly trip in my rush to reach the door, then fling it open to find Miller waiting there.
Like me, he’s dressed casually for the drive, in jeans and T-shirt. I just stand there, gawking at him for a minute.
His jeans look new, but his work boots are the ones he always wears. His moss-green shirt brings out the flecks of hazel in his brown eyes. It’s stretched at his shoulders and biceps, but otherwise loose, in a way that emphasizes how broad he is.
Obviously, I’ve seen him dressed like this before. I’ve worked with him for years! So why does this feel different?
His normal “dress code” at work is hardly different, though he usually has a flannel thrown over his T-shirt. So his look today shouldn’t take my breath away, but it does.
Maybe it’s because he’s here at my apartment. In my personal space, which I hardly ever share with anyone that I’m not related to by blood or marriage.
Or maybe it’s because I don’t usually look at him.
Of course, he sits catty-corner from me. I see him nearly every work day. But I don’t look at him, because it would be creepy to just stare at your coworker.
Oh, shit.
I’m being creepy now, aren’t I?
I clear my throat and step back, gesturing him in.
“Please come in. Sorry, I didn’t … usually people just text.
It’s so many stairs. Do you want a drink?
Not like a cocktail or anything. Because it’s nine.
And you’re driving. Not that I wouldn’t trust you to drive after a single drink, because I would.
Mostly because you’re a big guy and mass is in your favor.
But like, water for the road. Or coffee. I could make coffee!”
Oh God!
Octavia Rosemary Ramsey! Stop talking right now!!!!
I snap my mouth closed, fight the urge to apologize for rambling, force a smile, and gesture—again—for him to enter.
I am never opening my mouth again.
Miller steps into my apartment, looks around at the chaos without seeming to judge it. And then says, as if I didn’t vomit words all over him, “No thanks. I have a water bottle in the car.”
Then he smiles.
It’s a classic Miller-smile. The barest twitch of his lips. Amused, but also relaxed and kind somehow. As if I’m not a weirdo.
As if rambling about stairs and cocktails at nine a.m. and commenting on someone’s mass are all perfectly normal things to do.
And just like that, the weird tension that’s been knotting inside me since he offered to drive together to the wedding unspools. Suddenly, he’s just Miller. My work friend. Miller, who is quietly kind and thoughtful. And wicked smart.
And who definitely doesn’t deserve to have me acting like a weirdo around him.
I let out a sigh. I can do this. I can spend the next twenty-four to thirty-six hours with Miller without making things weird.
“Okay! Water bottle. That’s a great idea. I’ll grab one too.”
A few minutes later, we’re loading my luggage into the back of his SUV. Yes, luggage. He has a single duffel bag thrown into the trunk, I have a rolling bag, a backpack, and a hanging bag.
He smirks as I carefully drape the hanging bag over my suitcase and his duffel.
“It’s just one night, right?” he teases me.
I lightly punch his arm. “Men always pack lighter than women. It’s a scientific fact.”
He slants me a look as he closes the hood of the trunk. “A fact?”
“It is.”
“And I assume you’ll be able to cite your resources on that?”
“Absolutely.”
He follows me around the passenger side of the SUV and opens the door for me, helping me inside. It’s a gesture that’s unexpectedly gentlemanly. Almost sweet.
Which I guess shouldn’t surprise me since Miller is thoughtful.
A few minutes later, we’re on the road. My apartment is on the west side of town, not far from the highway that will take us out to Saddle Creek, so at least there’s no downtown traffic to navigate.
After a few minutes of driving in silence, he nods toward the radio. “You can turn on music if you want.”
I grin and hold out my hand. “I do want.”
He glances at my outstretched hand. “What?”
“You think I’m going to let this opportunity slip out of my hands?”
“What opportunity?”
“To check out your Spotify list.”
“What if I don’t have a Spotify list?”
“What?” I shoot him a disbelieving look, but he just shrugs. “Everybody has a Spotify list.”
Another shrug. “I don’t.”
“Okay, then. Your Apple playlist. Or or whatever streaming service you use.”
“I don’t use a streaming service.”
“Whaaatttt?” I brace my palm on the dashboard in a show of mock surprise. “Please don’t tell me you’re one of those weirdos who only listen to podcasts and talk radio.” I clasp my hands in prayer. “Please don’t be a Joe Rogan superfan. Please! If you are, lie to me.”
“If I was a Joe Rogan superfan, I think you would have noticed by now.” He chuckles, but hands over his phone. “But you’re welcome to check out my podcast library if you’re truly worried.”
Greedily, I take his phone, holding it at eye level toward him. “Smile for the biometrics!”
But he shakes his head. “I don’t use biometrics. But my passcode is eight-five-seven-five.”
I chuckle with disapproval. “No biometrics, but you just hand over your passcode? Isn’t that a little too trusting?”
“No. I trust you with my passcode. Biometrics would be trusting anyone with my phone and likeness of me.” He slants me a look. “We work in the same field. You know this as well as I do.”
“Sure, for my work phone.” I shrug. “I guess I just don’t think about there being anything of interest on my personal phone.”
He opens his mouth and then snaps it shut again.
There’s a beat where—I swear to God—we both think of the things some people keep on their phones. Salacious photos and sexting and who knows what else.
Personally, I have nothing like that on my phone. Which seems unspeakably na?ve and childish. The worst I have on my phone are some spicy alien romance novels in my Kindle library.
If Miller has secrets on his phone (a.k.a. dick pics or sexting), I don’t think I want to know. Praying I don’t find anything I don’t want to see, I look down at the phone in my hand to type in the code.
“A more likely story is that you trust that I’ll forget your passcode immediately.” I waggle the phone. “Which I’ve already done.”
He chuckles. “Eighty-five. The year my parents got engaged. Seventy-five. Because that’s the year America released ‘Sister Golden Hair.’”
“Ah.” I type in the code and his home screen pops up. “And sister golden hair is … a kind of pasta?”
He snorts. “My favorite song. America is a band.”
I shoot him a blank look.
“They’re better known for ‘A Horse with No Name.’”
“Oh! I know that one!”
“I bet you’ll recognize ‘Sister Golden Hair.’ Go ahead, open up the music app and play it.”
I follow his directions, and a few minutes later, the cab fills with a familiar guitar riff. “Oh, you’re right. I do know this.” As the song plays, I scroll through his music library like the nosey creeper I am.
At some point I make a humming noise and he asks, “What?”
“This is very … eclectic.”
“And?”
“And no playlists? Just albums? That’s so weird.”
“You’re saying I’m weird?”
“No, I’m saying your taste in music is weird. I haven’t even heard of half of these bands.”
“You’ll recognize the music if you play it. It’s mostly classic rock.”
Once he says it, I start recognizing some of the bands and the songs. Van Morrison. Fleetwood Mac. Supertramp. Kansas. I set to work making a playlist on his phone for our drive, pulling songs from his recent listens.
“Why all the classic rock? No, wait! Let me guess. You’re a closet Supernatural fan?” I tip my head to the side as if considering. “No. It can’t be that. You were working that decade.”
“Very funny.” He glances in my direction, that gentle, amused twist to his mouth. “I do have a TV.”
“Oh, thank God! I was worried I was going to have to get you one for Christmas. The stocking would have been enormous.”
His lips twitch into something that’s almost a full smile. I feel a burst of pride at my accomplishment.
“You never said why you’re so into classic rock.”
“It’s what my mom listened to when I was a kid. It’s the music of my childhood.”
“That’s surprisingly sweet.”
“I guess I’m a sweet guy.”
“It’s not nice to brag.” I roll my eyes. I keep working on the playlist, digging a little deeper. There’s some nineties grunge, so I layer in some Counting Crows. I toss in a few Chris Stapleton songs for the fun of it and then …
I sit up. “What is this?”
“What?”
My outburst must surprise him, because he takes his foot off the gas as he looks over at me.
“Taylor Swift!”
“Oh.” He jerks his attention back to the road.
I keep scrolling. “This is her entire discography.”
He glances back, his cheeks tinged with pink. “So?”
“You’re a Swiftie!”
He clears his throat. “She’s a talented songwriter.”
“That she is.” I try to keep my cackling to a bare minimum as I sprinkle in some Taylor Swift.
When I’m satisfied with the vibe of the list, I cue it up through the sound system and hand his phone back, settling back into the seat to enjoy the music, the scenery outside the window, and—if I’m honest with myself—the scenery beside me.
I wonder again if this is supposed to be a date.
I know we are friends, but could we be more?
Maybe?
I can’t tell if he wants that too.
After all, he walked up all those stairs to pick me up at my door and carry my bags down for me.
He opened the car door for me. He told me the passcode for his phone and didn’t seem the least bit worried I might steal his credit card information.
He let me make a playlist on his music app, even though he seems so opposed to them in general.
All of that feels important.
On the other hand, he’s older than I am.
Serious about things in a way I’m just not.
It’s probably something about being from a family of rampant neurodivergence, but I spent my childhood feeling like a thirty-five-year-old trapped in a child’s body.
Now that I’m in my mid-twenties, I feel the opposite.
Maybe all these things he’s done today are things real men his age just do. Maybe he’s being polite, and it means nothing more than that.
Unfortunately, if he is just being polite, I’m completely smitten. His good manners might just ruin me for other men.