“I already used that line, but nice try, jester.”
She blows a raspberry at me, and I stand, not wanting to overstay my welcome, more at ease now that I know I’ll get to see her for dinner tonight.
“Five o’clock for dinner?” I ask, and she nods. “Wear something pretty for me?”
“Only if you do,” she says.
I may not have something pretty to wear, but I certainly plan to give her something to look at.
12
ABBY
I would not have thought twice about what to wear tonight if it wasn’t for Miles’s comment, but it plagued me as I got dressed. My stomach is in knots, like I’m going on a date or something, which I am most definitely not. An old boyfriend and I are getting dinner together, nothing more, nothing less. And trying on every single dress I own twice has nothing to do with wanting to look pretty for Miles and everything to do with being indecisive about my outfit. Which happens all the time to me—to every woman, in fact.
I almost text Hazel and ask for her input, but I don’t want her making any comments about this being a date. Which it’s definitely not. Dates have intentions. Romantic intentions—and there are no romantic intentions between Miles and me.
I eventually land on a navy-blue ankle-length dress with spaghetti straps, a corseted top, and a pleated, flowy skirt. It should at the very least elicit a comment from Miles. Not that I care because I chose this dress for me and not to watch the way his eyes roam my bare skin or hope that he would run his hand down my arm.
Even if I wanted him to touch me, it’s not a good idea. His touch is electric, and it will only make me want more. And ifwe do more, I’m going to get emotionally attached or, worse, develop real feelings for him.
I worry that all the love I had for Miles never really left me; it just got buried after he broke up with me. I did bury it deep, ready to be forgotten for all time. But every touch from him is a layer of dirt excavated away, and I don’t know what will happen if it’s unearthed.
Which is why it’s important that it stays buried. We can have dinner together or do an activity, but he needs to keep his hands off me because the temptation is too much for me.
Plus, I only have five days left. Surely, I can keep my feelings and hands to myself for the next five days.
Miles is already waiting for me as I approach the restaurant, and boy, did he deliver. He isn’t wearing anything “pretty,” but he’s wearing the same collared shirt he wore two nights ago. It’s either slim cut, or his muscles just don’t fit in regular shirts. His biceps are huge, emphasized by the tight fabric of the shirt. It’s form-fitting across his chest and loose around his abdomen. His off-white chinos and loafers make it clear that he knows how to put an outfit together. His silver chain winks out from under his collar, and a matching silver watch ties the whole outfit together.
When he sees me, his teeth sink into his bottom lip, and I hear an appreciative groan as I approach. It’s hard to fight a smile—my lips lift into one anyway.
“Absolutely gorgeous,” he says, his voice low in my ear as he slips an arm around my waist to pull me against him for a hug.
Fuck, he smells nice. Vanilla and warm spices and something clean, like a soap with citrusy notes.
“Why do you smell so good?” he murmurs against my skin. His warm breath gives me goosebumps all down my arms.
I was going to ask you the same thing.
It’s still warm out, even though the sun has dipped low enough that we’re not getting hit by its harshest heat, and theslightest hint of his sweat smell comes through his cologne. My body responds exactly the way I expected it would. With a deep, devastatingwant.
I try to come up with something clever to say, but nothing comes to mind. My brain is clogged with focusing on where his hand is wrapped around my ribs, his forearm sturdy against my back, his chest pressed against mine.
I extract myself from his arm with monumental effort and avert my eyes by straightening my dress despite the lack of wrinkles.
“Shall we?” I ask.
“After you.”
For the second time this week, I take the little walkway up to the Mexican restaurant, but this time I make it to the maître d’s podium.
We’re taken to a table for two; one side of the table is a booth, which Miles offers to me, and he takes the chair. The lighting is dim, a few small tea lights glowing on the table, nestled in a short, wide terra-cotta planter filled with small rocks and succulents. The cloth napkins are black, the tablecloth itself a simple white, giving the restaurant a more upscale feel.
A romantic feel.
I know I won’t be able to hide behind the menu forever, but for a few minutes, I bury my nose in the pages, pretending to need extra time to think over what I want. Even after we’ve both ordered margaritas—mine frozen and his on ice—I still take my time browsing the menu.
When a waiter comes over and takes our order—and, thus, my shield—I start on my margarita. By the time I look at Miles, I find him already looking at me.
