Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
And the sounds he makes when he comes, the grunts, the groans, the long, carnal growl of my name, tell me how good this deal is for both of us.
Not going to lie—the dog walk is kind of wonderful. It’s almost like a date, but I know it’s safe. I’m just his dog-sitter, after all. No reason we can’t be seen walking them together, if anyone even notices. But I don’t think anyone does.
Besides, it’s impossible to hold hands when you’re managing the leashes of four tiny terrors. By the time we get them home, I need to head to the beach for the Renegades’ volunteer cleanup event. They hired me to take photos, so it’s a work thing, but still—it feels good to be doing something meaningful.
At the door, there’s this awkward moment. How exactly does this work? Do we make plans for later here at his house? Since, well, that’s all we can do. He’s heading out to a luncheon with a sponsor, and I have a shoot. But before I can overthink anything, he says, “Any chance you’d want to meet at High Kick when you’re done with your thing and I’m done with mine?”
“Like…in public?”
His confident grin somehow makes the question feel ridiculous. “She’s my grandmother. We’ve been there before. Besides…” His voice softens. “Aren’t we friends?”
We both know that’s a lie. Friends don’t make my heart trip like this.
“Sure. I’ll text you when I’m done…friend.”
His hand slips to the back of my neck, pulling me in for a toe-curling kiss that says we’re so much more than friends.
What, though, I don’t entirely know.
I’m not sure what I want this to be either. Or, really, what it even can be. And I suspect that’s the same for him, since wanting and having are two entirely different beasts.
High Kick Coffee is quiet in the late afternoon, the stream of customers fading as the sun dips lower and caffeine needs dwindle. Birdie’s signature showgirl music plays softly as I enter, passing Dolly by the door.
I smile at the sequined mannequin, remembering how she caught my attention the day I met Miles—when he carried her in here.
The second the door closes behind me, I shed the stress of the day. The shoot went well, though my mom sent a half-dozen texts teasing “exciting news.” She hasn’t actually told me what it is yet, and I’m not sure I want to know. For now, I leave her drama behind.
I glance around, but Miles isn’t here yet. Behind the counter, Birdie catches my eye and beckons me over, pressing one finger to her bright red lips.
“I saved you a special spot,” she says, her voice full of mischief.
“Thanks,” I say, feeling suspicious. “But I’m meeting Miles here.”
“I know, sweetheart. It’s my job to know these things.” She winks and waves me toward the back.
I feel a little fizzy as I follow her, my suspicion growing. She’s up to something. Or maybe…in on it.
When I round the corner, my suspicions are confirmed. The table she’s picked is tucked into a cozy corner, complete with a small mason jar of wildflowers. It offers a discreet view of the shop—and of Miles, waiting for me.
“Just for you two,” Birdie says, sounding far too pleased before she takes off for the front of the café again.
Miles stands, pulling out my chair. “Hey,” he says, and the way he says that one word reminds me of last night when he returned home. It’s full of hidden meaning.
“Hi,” I say, hoping that one syllable conveys how much I like this unexpected moment too.
His fingers brush mine as I sit, sending a zing of warmth down my chest. I gesture to the tiny vase of flowers, focusing on it instead of the intoxicating feelings bubbling inside me. “Think she does this for everyone?”
He leans closer. “No. I brought the flowers. For you.”
“Oh.” The word gusts past my lips, my surprise unmistakable. No one has brought me flowers in years. Or maybe ever. “I love them. Thank you,” I say in a rush.
“They reminded me of your tattoos,” he says, a hopeful note in his voice. “Want to smell them?”
He knows why I love flowers. The thoughtfulness of it is so specific and so touching that my throat tightens.
“Always.” I lean in, inhaling the gentle fragrance of the blooms and the meaning behind them. They’re fresh, sweet, with a sun-warmed scent that feels like spring.
After I rattle off every note I can detect, I add, a little embarrassed, “I love flowers so much.”
“I know,” he says, his voice full of quiet pride. His gaze drifts to my arm, then to the rest of the shop, as if he’s checking to see if the coast is clear.
It’s just us right now—us and the jazzy music, the warmth of his gift, and the secrecy of our date.