Miller brought me to the wedding. We came here together.
And I don’t believe—-not for one minute—that he would have brought me with him if he’d beenhoping to hook up with someone else. That’s just not his style.
And then there’s the fact that it was Devon saying it. Devon, who guzzles office gossip like it’s single-estate champagne. Why on earth did I take his word for it?
Of course I know why. Because the Raquels and Alexas of the world have always made me feel less than. I don’t even know if it’s intentional. God, I probably need to bring this up with my therapist. Or at least with my crochet group.
I easily believed that Miller would want someone like Raquel, because she’s the kind of woman some part of me—some boring, insecure part of me—secretly wishes I could be.
But that doesn’t mean that’s who Miller wants me to be.
Not if he called me love.
I sit up.
Suddenly, memories and wondering are not enough.
If Miller is going to come back this morning to pick me up for the drive home—as bathroom floor logic says he is—then I need to be ready.
That means I need to shower, pack, and for the love of the entire Sanrio universe, I need to brush my teeth.
Twenty minutes later I am up, clean, hydrated, and packed. I’m dressed in the flared skirt and tank top I packed for the ride home. I’ve been mentally rehearsing the perfect witty but deflective opening line every second of those twenty minutes.
I have considered everything from the legally binding (“I’m going to need you to sign this NDA before we proceed”) to the geographically convenient (“Do we have a Denver office? I’ve decided to transfer”).
For better or worse—probably better—I haven’t settled on anything when the knock comes.
It doesn’t matter, anyway. Because I could have written a Shakespearean soliloquy and it would have died on my lips, forgotten completely.
Miller is standing there, looking as devastating as ever in cargo shorts and a black T-shirt. His whiskey-brown eyes are alight with gentle humor, as they often are. His lips quirked in that familiar, faint smile.
But that’s not what stops me in my tracks. Not what kills and buries my wittiest of opening lines.
No, what kills me is the coffee cup he’s holding out.
And the tiny dragon hair clip perched on top.
My dragon hair clip. The one I lost last night.
“Rhaegal!” I gasp, jerking my eyes from thedragon to Miller’s face and back again. “You found him!”
Miller breaks into a full smile. “It was easy once the sun came up.”
I glance behind him, across the lush grass, up the gentle hill to the barn where the reception was held. The venue sits on acres and acres of land. While there’s one main path from the venue to the barndominiums that ring it, we definitely didn’t take that path last night. I remember launching off across the grass. Veering a bit back and forth as we walked.
I look at Rhaegal again, where he sits on the white lid of the to-go cup.
Last night, I was so worried that my dragons made me more ridiculous. Just another sign that I was too young and too silly for a man like Miller.
But this morning, he found my dragon.
I reach for the coffee automatically. As soon as I’m holding the cup, Miller takes the hair clip from the lid. Every witty line I practiced disappears into the ether as he steps forward and brushes my hair back from my temple with a gentle twist before securing Rhaegal in place.
“There,” he says. “He’s back home safe and sound. Much better.”
My brain is dead. My lungs have stopped functioning. Hormones alone are keeping me alive.
This moment is much like the one last night with Devon.
