“My famous chicken with risotto,” he replied, crouching to pull out a glass dish where the chicken sizzled in a rich, golden sauce. The aroma hit me like a freight train, and my stomach growled.
Mortified, I slapped a hand over it.
Miles laughed, setting the dish on the island. “I’ll take that as a good sign.”
“I guess I’m hungry,” I admitted, cheeks warming.
“Good,” he said. “There’s more than enough here for two. I’ll send you home with leftovers.”
He stepped toward me then—into my space and without hesitation—and leaned down to press a kiss to my cheek. It was casual. Confident.
The gesture made my spine go rigid. As he turned to open the fridge, smiling like it hadn’t even registered as a big deal, I knew I had to say something. Now. Before the line got even blurrier because I wasn’t in the market to lead the guy on any longer.
“Miles, can I talk to you about something?” I asked gently.
He turned to face me and shook his head. “Let’s eat first. Get that belly full. Whatever it is can wait.”
I pressed my lips together, nodding in acceptance. One meal wouldn’t hurt. It was good to at least get settled before having the conversation.
Salad, risotto, and chicken were plated and brought to the dining table, which he had set with flickering candles and wine glasses filled. Before I could open my mouth, Miles hijacked the conversation.
“Have you ever been in a hot-air balloon?”
The question was so absurdly random, causing me to laugh mid-bite. “No. I don’t know if I’d like it very much.”
“Why not? There’s nothing better than floating high above everything with the wind guiding you.”
“Adrenaline junkie, are you?” I teased.
He gave a nonchalant shrug. “Guess you could say that.”
I waved a hand in front of my face playfully. “This girl is deathly afraid of heights. Being out of control? No thanks. The idea of being at the mercy of the wind terrifies me.”
He smiled, nodded like he understood. “So, what do you like to do for fun?”
Before I knew it, we were deep in conversation—talking, laughing, and enjoying each other’s company. This version of Miles was relaxed, charming, and easy to talk to. And God, the man could cook.
A glass and a half of wine later, I stood to carry my plate to the sink. I set it down when I felt arms slide around me from behind, caging me in.
My whole body went still as Miles leaned down and pressed a kiss to my exposed shoulder.
I shifted, throwing my shoulder to subtly push him off. Here he was again, invading my space without asking. This was the reminder I needed to end this, for good.
Miles held tight and continued kissing up my neck like he hadn’t heard me at all.
“No,” I said, twisting in his grip until I faced him.
“Come on,” he muttered, a dark edge creeping into his tone. “Quit playing so hard to get.”
“I said no.” I shoved him away with both palms planted on his chest.
He straightened, and something in his eyes changed—darkened. Gone was the friendly charm. In its place was something hard, entitled… dangerous.
“No?” he said, tilting his head, eyes narrowing as he studied me.
“Look,” I began, trying to keep my voice centered. “I came here tonight to be honest. I’m not ready for a relationship. You and I, we can just be friends.”
His lips curled with disbelief. “Are you serious? You wait until after I cook you dinner? After I spend my night talking to you?”
