Chapter 8
eight
The clink of my keys in the entryway dish spurs a, “Hey, Stink!”
“Hey!” Setting down my bag, I peek into the living room. Miles has a headset on, wearing nothing but neon pink boxer briefs and a tank top as he plays Fortnite. He’s pulled his office chair out of his bedroom so he can sit closer to the TV, and between that, the coffee table, and the obnoxiously large Christmas tree, the apartment has never looked so small.
“Did you wear pants at any point today?”
He wiggles a little in his chair like he’d be shaking his ass if he were standing. “I did not.”
“The luxuries of working from home,” I answer wistfully.
He glances over his shoulder at me. “Well, I did have to listen to the workings of Lenny for hours on end, so it’s a fair trade. How was your day?”
There’s still no elaborate Christmas decoration in the lobby, so I wonder what the guy upstairs could be working on. Heading into the kitchen, I reach for the bottle of Chardonnay on the counter. “Kind of weird? ”
Miles has one side of his headset slipped behind his ear. “How so?”
I pour my wine into a stemless glass. “That guy called me tonight.”
He glances over his shoulder as he continues to play. “The guy from Southern Roast?”
I nod. “Chase. He wanted to get drinks.”
Abandoning his match, he spins the chair around and rips the headset off. “Bitch, then why are you here?”
I give him a warning look. “He also asked out the barista again today, but she turned him down.”
“So?”
I blink. “So, I don’t want to be his shitty backup plan.”
“Wow.” Miles crosses his arms.
I frown, setting my glass on the counter. “Wow what?”
He raises an eyebrow. “You just never struck me as being this petty.”
I balk at him. “ Petty? I’m just trying to avoid getting involved with a fuckboy.”
He rolls his eyes. “How do you even know he asked out the other girl, anyway?”
“He told me.” I take another sip and try to hide how much I’m still stuck on being called petty of all things.
Miles lets out a snort of laughter. “So, if he’s a fuckboy, he’s bad at it.”
I shrug. “Maybe?” I honestly don’t know what type of guy Chase is. “Either that, or he’s overly honest.”
He gives me a dubious look. “Well, aren’t we suddenly generous?”
I’m almost afraid to ask, but I say, “With what?”
Miles waves his hand aimlessly in the air. “All this benefit of the doubt we’re giving.”
I roll my eyes. “I turned him down, didn’t I?”
“And what did he say? ”
“What do you mean?”
Without breaking his unwavering stare, he says, “What did he say when you turned him down?”
Sucking in my lips, I shake my head. He knows me too well.
“Candace.”
“Okay,” I say, forcing out a breath. “I may have lied and said I was busy.” I hold up a finger. “But I did tell him that when we reschedule, it’s strictly as friends.”
Miles sits up straight and does a slow clap. “Bravo. Way to lay down the hammer. Show that fuckboy what you’re made of.” When I don’t give his snide remark the time of day, he grabs his phone and starts typing.
“What are you doing?”
Without looking at me, he says, “Finding him.”
“Wait. Why?” My attempt to hide my panic is pointless.
“To see if he’s a fuckboy or if he’s just ‘overly honest.’” He gives me a pointed stare on those last two words, and I stick my tongue out at him.
Miles will find him. I’m convinced Miles can find anyone. I once dated a guy who played intramural softball, and he found a guy on the opposing team without so much as his name just because he thought he was cute.
I’m more worried about what the consensus will be once he does find him.
Getting to his feet, Miles walks up to me. “Is this him?” He flips his phone around for me to see a smiling photo of Chase.
Chase Mitchell.
I gape at him. “How did you do that so fast?” Even knowing his capabilities, I’m always impressed by them.
Miles lets out a sigh like he was hoping this one would be more of a challenge. “He follows Southern Roast.”
I tilt my head. “Huh, I don’t even think I follow them, and they’re my favorite coffee shop. ”
Miles scrolls. “He follows a lot of business pages, but I can’t decide if that’s a red flag.”
I move closer to him so I can get a better look at the screen. “He doesn’t look like a fuckboy based on his feed.” It doesn’t look like he posts often, but when he does, they’re usually pictures of things—a coffee, food, a stunning beach landscape.
“He could just be good at hiding it.” Miles taps on his tagged photos, and that’s where we find a different version of Chase.
There are so many beautiful women.
“Fuckboy in hiding!” Miles cheers and he scrolls down, and down, and down, to show all the pictures of Chase smiling at the camera with stunning women at his side. Some photos have men and women in a group setting, but there are definitely more women in these than not.
My overly honest theory crumbles at my feet.
“When are you getting drinks with this hot man as just his friend?” Miles asks, still scrolling.
“We didn’t get that far.”
He nods to my phone on the counter. “Text him.”
Now it’s my turn to stare. “You just said I was being too generous by not turning him down!”
“I know, but I’ve reconsidered.” He shrugs. “And you need to get laid.”
I almost choke. “What are you talking about? I go on dates all the time.”
“Yes, dates. But when’s the last time you slept with someone?” He cocks a knowing eyebrow, and my eyes narrow.
“It hasn’t been that long.” I do the math on my fingers. “It’s only been . . .” I frown. “Eight months?”
“ Eight? ” With a shake of his head, he says, “Damn, Candace. I thought you were going to say three— maybe four.” He looks me up and down. “Eight months. Jesus Christ.”
I let out a bewildered laugh. “Come on, that’s not so bad! ”
“What about that guy you went on a few dates with back in October? I thought you liked him.”
“I did like him,” I say simply. “Just not enough to sleep with him.” Pointing at him, I add, “Which ended up being a good thing because he lied about taking care of his grandma. She was definitely the one taking care of him.”
He points to my phone again. “Seriously, text him,” he says before spinning around to go back to his game. It looks like the match has since ended.
With a groan, I make a dramatic show of reaching for my phone and pulling it toward me. “But whyyyy?”
“Because, even if it doesn’t turn into anything, you need to go on a date with a guy you actually want to sleep with.”
“Who says I want to sleep with him?”
Giving me a lazy sideways glance, Miles deadpans. “You’re blushing.”
Being called out only makes my cheeks flare more, but I aggressively flip my phone over. “Fine. I’ll text him.”
Candace:
8 tomorrow night. Stem and Leaf.
I’m surprised when a response quickly comes in.
Chase:
Sounds good, friend.