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I clear my throat. "No, I'm not big on alcohol. Can't find anything else to drink."
He reaches past me. His hand brushes against my shoulder as he pulls open the fridge. He nods to a row of water bottles on the middle shelf. "Help yourself."
"Thanks."
Miles looks so familiar. And his voice is familiar too. Almost like he...
No. That's not possible.
There's no way this guy is the singer of alternative rock band Sinful Serenade, the guy who sings In Pieces, the guy who's been haunting my thoughts for the last three months with his breathy, tortured voice. With all the pain in his soulful eyes.
I try to recall the song's music video but my damn brain goes right back to the image of Miles naked on the bed.
Damn. I watched that video a thousand times. It was a massive hit. The song hit the top 40 for a week or two, a rarity for alternative rock in this day and age.
More importantly, the video and the song went right to my soul. The singer was whispering in my ear. He promised that I wasn't alone. He promised that I wasn't the only person who had ever felt this way.
I understood him and he understood me. We were the only two people in the world who knew how badly it hurt, losing everything that mattered.
The man who sings In Pieces is a tortured soul. He doesn't screw one woman, wash up, then move on to flirting with lay number two.
Kara keeps playing down how famous her friend is.
He lives here. I know that much.
This Miles guy seems to live here.
Fuck.
Why didn't Kara warn me her friend was in that band?
Miles clears his throat. "You okay?"
I nod a yes and attempt to hold his gaze. "Don't walk in on casual sex very often."
"Mhmm."
"I was looking for the bathroom."
He laughs. "Is that the best you can do?"
"I was." I take a half-step backwards. "Excuse me. I should go."
His voice drops an octave. "You're not going to let me formally introduce myself?"
"Okay." My stomach flutters. "I'm Meg Smart."
"Miles Webb." He takes my hand with a strong grip. His eyes pass over me like he's trying to place me. "How is it we haven't met before?"
"I don't go to parties."
"Guess that makes this my lucky day." His hand brushes against my wrist. Then it's back at his side. He leans in a little closer, his eyes on mine. "Why'd you decide to come tonight?"
I should be the one asking him that. "My friend convinced me I wouldn't hate it."
"What's the verdict?"
"I still don't like parties." I take a deep breath. "Why'd you come tonight?"
