“He’s a regular matchmaker,” Miles says.
“Probably not the first time he’s stuck some poor single girl with some hot stranger and tried to hook them up,” I say.
“You think I’m hot?”
“Shut up.”
“Oh my god, Abby. Why didn’t you say so sooner? I think you’re hot too.”
I glare as I pass him my dough ball for him to finish kneading so I don’t get yelled at for having sad dough again. Without a word, he takes it and works my dough until it’s the right texture.
The instructor claps his hands and tells us that our dough needs a little nap, and while we wait, we’ll do wine tasting.
“You don’t drink wine, do you?” Miles asks.
“No, I—wait, how do you…?”
Miles taps his temple with one finger, leaving faint traces of flour on his face. “I remember things, Abby.”
I want to acknowledge this, his memory for this detail about me. I want to pick it apart and analyze it. What does it mean that he remembered that I have migraines and wine is one of my triggers? Maybe for some people it wouldn’t mean anything, but even my teacher friends invite me to a wine night once a month and “always forget” I can’t drink with them without getting a migraine.
“Come with me,” he says, and without argument, I do.
While the instructor pours wine for the people across the room, we slip out the classroom doors and into the main resort dining area. Miles leads me to the buffet area and grabs a plate, holding it out to me.
“You haven’t eaten today, have you?” he says rather than asks.
“How could you possibly know that?”
“Lucky guess,” he says with a grin. “We were in a pasta-making class; it’s not a far leap to assume you’d hold out on eating a big lunch so you could eat the pasta you made.”
He holds the plate out to me, and I take it.
“I won’t make you sit with me or talk to me, but I do think you should eat. I can sit at another table, and we’ll go back in once you’ve had your snack.”
His thoughtfulness softens all those sharp edges in me, the ones I’m using as spikes to keep him at a distance.
“Don’t be dumb—you can sit with me,” I say as a smile tugs at the corners of his lips.
The buffet is arranged the same as it is during meals, but with fewer options. The middle island is stacked with charcuterie-style foods—cheeses, fruits, meats, and crackers all surroundedby island flora, greens and colorful flowers. The outside counters around the island are usually stacked with food options too, but lie empty now, waiting for the next mealtime.
The seating area is massive, as this is the main dining spot for breakfast and lunch. It’s enclosed in glass, so you still feel like you’re outside, but the blessed air conditioning keeps the humidity at bay so meals can be fully enjoyed. The room is empty for the most part, just a few people at tables or milling about. Miles and I snag a two-seater table.
This seems like as good a time as any to talk to him. Get it over with and move on with my vacation.
“I think you wanted to have a conversation with me?” I start.
“I did. I do. I want to talk about last night.”
“It was a real choice to follow me around all day in hopes of having said conversation.”
“I didn’t know how else to find you besides waiting outside your door, and I didn’t want to be that guy. There’s always the chance you could have had an excursion today or just gone to the beach or pool. I did check both of those places, multiple times through the day, but I also thought I’d try a bunch of resort activities, just in case. So I showed up to a bunch of them and hoped for the best.”
“I skipped the divine feminine workshop after the chair massage,” I say.
“I didn’t,” he says, and smiles spread across both of our faces.
“How was that?”
