Page 116 of Spies Don’t Fall for Their Best Friend

“Yes.”

I laugh despite myself. “The date was a disaster. It was amazing.”

“That… clears up nothing.”

“I may have accidentally kicked him in the jaw and given him a pretty bad bruise. Oh, and a beagle named Winston thinks Miles communes with ghosts. It was honestly one of the best nights I’ve ever had.”

She shakes her head. “I’m not even going to ask.” But she’s wearing that expression she sometimes wears that says she knows something I don’t.

“What?”

“It’s nothing. I’m just happy for you.”

“Normal happy or the terrifying kind where you’ve secretly been planning our wedding for four years?”

“Five.” When I stare at her, she bursts out laughing. “I’m kidding.”

I raise an eyebrow.

“I have not planned your wedding.”

“Good.”

“I may have occasionally wondered whether I would someday be planning your wedding, though.”

I groan and drop my forehead onto my folded arms.

Mom pats the top of my head. “Honey, you cannot expect me to have spent that much time around Miles Lancaster without noticing the way he looks at you.”

I lift my head. “Apparently, everyone noticed except me.”

“That sounds about right. And now that I know him better…” She smiles. “I like him even more.”

Before Hammy, Mom knew Miles mostly as my best friend—the charming Lancaster brother who showed up for family things and could make conversation with anyone. Now she knows the Lancaster family. Evelyn. Jace. Mackenzie. Ledger and Zoe. Charlie and Owen. She has spent holidays and dinners and random weekends around all of them. She knows the family behind Miles in a way she didn’t before.

And she knows what Miles really does for a living. Which still occasionally breaks my brain.

Mom leans against the island. “So…” she prods, “the kiss.”

I feel heat creep into my cheeks.

She gasps dramatically. “You’re blushing.”

“I am not.”

“How was it?”

I try to glare at her and fail. Because apparently remembering kissing Miles makes my face stop accepting instructions. “It was…” I look down at the strawberries. “Really good.”

Mom makes another tiny squealing noise. “Sorry.”

“You are not.”

“Not even a little.”

I laugh, but it comes out softer than I expect. Because the truth is, I’ve been replaying it all day. The way Miles looked at me when I opened the door.

The way he said, I am going to kiss you now.