I expect him to go haughty, superior, like he did during the breakup. To his credit, he doesn’t.
His brow creases, the corners of his full lips twisting downward. “I deserve that, and whatever else you’re not saying. I get that. But it doesn’t change the fact that I care about you.”
I wish I could laugh again, but it feels like a sheet of ice is spreading over my organs, making any movement impossible.
“And I know how much this all must suck for you,” he says. “Being here, alone.”
“I’m not alone,” I say.
“I know,” he says. “That’s what I’m saying. It might seem easier to just . . . be with someone. But you deserve better than that.”
I’m back to gawping.
“Look, all I’m saying is, be careful,” he says. “That guy’s a mess, and I don’t want to see him drag you down.”
As if there’s so much lower for me to go.
“Do you know why he moved here?” he says. “Do you know his whole family doesn’t even talk to him? That guy is such a loser, Daphne. You can do way better.”
I’m caught off guard by that. A tiny bit of doubt sneaks in. Followed quickly by a wave of angry protectiveness.
Of course there’s a ton I don’t know about Miles. We’ve only been roommates for two months, friends for less than that. He doesn’t owe me his life story or unfiltered truth.
But Peter—Peter asked me to marry him.
Asked me to give up my whole life and glom on to his.
Asked me to accept his beautiful, straight, female best friend at face value because there was unequivocally nothing going on there, and I always said yes to everything he asked, because I trusted him. I decided to trust him. Promised to. A personal vow, taken long before our wedding.
And now he’s looking at me, in this tortured mix of worry and hope, like he’s thinking, I did it! I’ve gotten through to her! I’ve saved her from ruin!
“You know what, Peter,” I say, “thank you for pulling me aside today.”
His face brightens, relief flooding his features.
“It’s always nice to be reminded that your ex really was as big of an asshat as you remember him being.”
With that, I turn and power walk across the brilliantly sunlit parking lot to the guy slouched against the truck, the driver’s-side door hanging open, waiting for him.
“You okay?” Miles asks, right as I pitch myself into his arms, wrapping mine around his neck. His brows shoot up in amused surprise.
“Is he looking?” I whisper.
Miles nods.
“Can I kiss you?”
A half-amused, half-scandalized smile overtakes his face. “Okay.”
So I lean into him and lift my chin, and he ducks his forehead, and we have one of the top five worst kisses of my life, junior high included.
The problem is, I go in way too hot, whereas he’s aiming for a chaste teenage-actors-doing-a-high-school-play kind of thing, so basically I end up biting his entire mouth, which makes him laugh into mine, which in turn makes me laugh, only by then, he’s adjusted his approach to match mine, and the laugh dies in the back of my throat as he grips my hip in one hand, my jaw in the other, and kisses me for real.
Rough, impatient, but not clumsy.
His mouth is still cool from the lemonade, his breath tinged with hints of lavender, and his hand slides around to the small of my back, fisting into my shirt. His other moves into my hair as he pulls me tight against him, my spine curving up until we’re flush with each other.
His tongue slips into my mouth, experimentally, and then a little deeper, tangling with mine. A thrill shoots down the front of my rib cage as he turns us one hundred and eighty degrees, backing me into the side of the driver’s seat, settling his hips in against mine.
I’ve read interviews with actors, about how filming sex scenes isn’t sexy, how the performance of it is mechanical. A little awkward, but overall professional.
But that’s not what’s happening to me. What’s happening is biological, not cursory.
My nipples are tightening against his chest, and heat is sinking lower in my stomach until it drops between my thighs, and when I feel him hardening against me, the shock of it almost instantly gives way to a frazzled, confusing want.
I don’t remember moving my hands into his hair, but I feel it slip between my fingers, hear a small, needy sound in my throat at the brush of his tongue over my bottom lip.
He draws back slowly, the kiss settling like the tail end of a fast-moving storm, a tapering off rather than an abrupt stop.
My breath is shallow, and I can feel his heart racing.
“How was that?” he asks quietly.
“Yeah,” I manage. “Good.”
“Is he still looking?” Miles asks.
Right. Peter.
