For a second, we’re just standing there, a tiny bit too close. Or maybe it’s a totally normal amount of space, but the kiss is suddenly buzzing through me, replaying again and again.
His hands sliding around me. Lemon and lavender on his tongue. Our spines curving together. Him going hard. I’m fairly certain I can see it replaying in his eyes too.
“Shit!” He flinches away from me. “The asparagus!” He tries to yank one smoking stalk off the grill but jerks his hand back with a hiss, fumbling for the tongs before his second attempt to move them to the plate.
Meanwhile, I’m standing there, waiting for the fizz to settle.
12
THURSDAY, JUNE 6TH
72 DAYS UNTIL I CAN LEAVE
In the best of times, it’s inadvisable to start lusting after your roommate, and we are nowhere near the best of times.
I try to push the memory of the kiss to the back of my brain, along with any residual Miles’s mouth–based curiosity, but it’s not easy.
On Thursday I go to grab a late-night glass of water at exactly the right time to find Miles filling his own glass in the unlit kitchen, wearing nothing but athletic shorts, the disjointed assortment of tattoos splashed across his chest reduced to dark blurs, pieces of him I’ve seen before but not since the kiss, and now I find myself insatiably curious.
About the perfectly balanced scales of Libra, the illustrated Man on the Moon, the somewhat wonky horseshoe, the little red piece of fruit . . . a strawberry maybe?
“Hey,” he says, his voice scratchy with sleep. “You need something?”
I guiltily jerk my gaze back to his face. “Nope!” I’ve already spun back to my room before I realize that actually, yes, I needed the very water pitcher Miles was holding, but there’s no way I’m going back in there now.
On Sunday, we drive out to Sleeping Bear Dunes and it’s easier to be normal, because it’s eye-scaldingly bright out and we’re both fully dressed, and also this is possibly the most gorgeous stretch of turquoise shore I’ve ever seen—even if it’s also where I’m going to die a premature death, because today Miles has decided we should rent a dune buggy.
“You’ll be fine,” he promises as he holds a helmet out to me.
“Anything you need a helmet to do,” I say, “you probably simply shouldn’t do.”
He steps closer, the breeze ruffling his hair, and pulls the helmet down over my head. “Or maybe,” he says, eyes crinkled against the sun, “everything worth doing comes with some risk.”
His winsome grin sends a thrill up my spine, a lit fuse shortening by the second, and I have no idea what happens when it burns to the end.
He tips his head toward the buggy. “I promise to go slow for you.”
The way he says it, low and teasing, sends my thoughts scattering like pool balls on a perfect break. I can’t think of a single reply. Silently, I climb into the buggy.
On the upside, the experience of rumbling over hills in a vehicle with no door or sides, wind ripping through my hair and sand stinging my skin, turns out to be a good distraction from staring at Miles’s mouth too long.
Downside: every time we hit a bump, I accidentally grab his right thigh with both hands, until finally, he slows to a crawl and sets one palm over mine, murmuring, “It’s okay. I’ve got you,” in a velvety tone I assume he means to be soothing rather than tantalizing.
Whenever we reach a new scenic view (which is almost constantly), he insists we stop to take a picture together, and I have to disconnect my brain to keep the feeling of his arms roped around me, chin tucked into my shoulder, from plunging me wholesale back into the memory of making out against his truck.
The next Sunday is a little better. We kick things off by driving three towns over to Miles’s favorite farmers’ market. We wander for hours and leave with what we need to make pizzas.
At home that night, we build a simple margherita (my contribution) as well as a goat-cheese, artichoke, pesto concoction (Miles’s). Then he keeps an eye on them in the oven while I seize the opportunity to take a much-needed shower.
When I get back, clad in my favorite silky pajamas, he’s setting the pizzas on the table.
“Perfect timing.” He glances up, then double-takes.
I track his gaze downward and, to my horror, realize I didn’t dry off thoroughly enough before getting dressed. My top is damp, nearly translucent in several places, and—speaking of perfect timing—my nipples choose that instant to stand at attention, like eager little meerkats.
I cross my arms over my chest.
Miles’s eyes snap back to my face.
“I’ll grab plates!” I volunteer.
“I’ll get drinks,” he coughs out.
In the kitchen, I pull two mismatched floral plates down, then turn, immediately colliding with him, the plates flattened upright between our stomachs, and his hands—in their attempt to catch my forearms and prevent said collision—pressed to the outside edges of my collarbones.
“Sorry,” we both say.
Or he says it. I yelp it.
We awkwardly sidestep in the same direction. Then he steps back, holding a hand out like, After you, and I scuttle to the table, leaving him to rummage in the kitchen. When he emerges, he’s got two glasses of wine.
“Thank god,” I accidentally say when he hands me one, a comment he mercifully ignores.
He dishes up a piece of each pizza for both of us and we pad into the living room, where we sit on opposite ends of the couch. I take a bite of the artichoke pizza first.
“There it is,” Miles says.
I open my eyes. Because, as it turns out, I had closed them and also moaned a little. He’s fighting a grin as he bites into his own artichoke slice.
“The signature Daphne moan,” he says.
I flush. “It’s been a long time since I’ve eaten pizza.”
Miles smiles wryly. “Right, you were on the wheatgrass diet.” His head tilts, eyes glimmering. “So what else should we do, now that you’re single?”
I nearly choke even as a knot of heat slides down into my stomach.
I feel the phantom sensation of rough hands at the base of my spine, a stomach pressing into mine, cool lips that taste like lemon and lavender.
After a hearty cough, I ask, “What do you mean?”
“I mean,” Miles says, “things your ex didn’t like. That you can do now.”
Somehow, that sounds even dirtier.
“Like eating pizza,” I stammer, determined to prove I’m not reading into this.
