Maybe that’s what he was going to say. Words were never something Miles was good at, and I had patience for that in college, but lately I haven’t had patience for much of anything.
“Does he still look as good as he used to?” Hazel asks conspiratorially.
“Better.”
Hazel laughs, a bright cackling noise as familiar to me as my own laugh.
“What? Why is that funny?” I ask.
“Oh, honey, you are in danger.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, like, you and Miles are like magnets. You spent so much time at the hockey rink in college because you couldn’t bear to be away from him for a few hours. Your ability to findeach other in a crowded room was the stuff of romance movies back in college; there’s no way that’s gone. I can hear it in your voice. You’re telling me he’s as hot, if not hotter than he was back then. Girl, you’re going to jump his bones.”
I groan. Hazel is right—I am drawn to Miles. That I haven’t touched him yet is a testament to my own willpower, but I’m neither a statue nor a saint, and my ability to resist temptation has limits.
“I can’t do that, Haze. Physical stuff is emotional for me. I’m not one of those people who can separate it and it’s already all twisted up together with Miles. Jumping his bones would make things way too messy. And not in the hot way.”
“So you need to talk to him one more time—no problem, you can handle that. But then you need to avoid him for the rest of the week so you don’t crawl into his lap and fall in love with him again?”
“That…feels really dramatic.”
“Thisisdramatic,” she says.
I groan again. “This is not what I needed on this vacation.”
“Just find yourself another equally handsome man to get your mind off Miles.”
“Well, hopefully there’s someone in my pasta-making class. I’m gonna get going.”
Hazel lets me go, and I finish my drink in the egg chair, musing over our conversation. I still feel all twisted up, confused about the things Miles has said, torn between being curious about him and wanting to stay away from him, and I still feel the tendrils of stress from this past year clinging to my organs, like a sticky tar that needs more than one wash to get off. I can’t see what’s on the other side of all of this, and I’m starting to think the only way through is one hour at a time.
At least my next hour includes pasta.
I’m early to the pasta class hosted by the resort kitchen staff, so I get my choice of stations. There’s an apron on one of the two stools at the station; clearly this is an activity targeted for couples, but I don one of the aprons anyway and survey the supplies in front of me. The table is also set for two—two hot plates with a pan on each and a basket of ingredients in front of that containing flour, eggs, olive oil, and salt.
As more people trickle in, the instructor points them to a station, and by the time the class is almost full, I’m still standing alone. Like getting an empty row on an airplane, I’m hoping I lucked out, but just as the instructor is closing the door, a tall, dark-haired figure appears in the doorway.
Of course Miles is here.
I can’t hear the instructor, but I see him point to my station.
Given how the day has gone, that just figures.
Miles takes the spot next to me at the cooking station, tying the apron around his waist. There’s a big smile on his face. A stupid, gorgeous smile that only serves to annoy me and make my palms a little sweaty. I wipe them on my apron and swallow against my thumping pulse.
“Hello, gorgeous,” he says, leaning in to quietly greet me.
“You have a lot of audacity to flirt with me right now.”
“I literally cannot help myself.”
That shouldn’t make my stomach flutter, but it does. My body is a traitor when it comes to Miles.
“How did you know I would be here?”
“I’m just doing resort activities; we happen to be choosing the same ones,” he says.
