Because that’s the thing.
Thisisa test.
If Miller opens the door, takes one look at me, and makes fun of me—really makes fun of me, not his dry, gentle teasing—then… that’s it.
Crush over.
Squashed.
Buried.
Emotionally composted.
But if he doesn’t…
If helikesit…
If he?—
There’s a knock at the door.
My heart immediately tries to escape my body.
“Okay,” I whisper. “Okay. This is happening.”
I grab my clutch, take a step toward the door?—
—and immediately trip over one of the long trailing scarves.
“Oh—!”
There is a horrifying, slow-motion moment where I realize I am about to eat shit in the most dramatic outfit I have ever worn.
And then the door is open and I’m fallingforward?—
—and suddenly there are hands on me.
Strong hands.
Catching me.
Steadying me.
I land against something solid and warm, my palms braced instinctively?—
on bare skin.
Oh.
Oh.
Oh.
I blink up at Miller.
And for a second, my brain just… stops working.
Because Miller?—
