Page 58 of Blue Jeans in Low Beams

I flip through the TV, searching for the desired app and clicking through until I find it. The vocalized theme song fills the air, settling in me and offering comfort. Just what I need to help me focus on diabetes medications.

The sound of the door opening makes my ears perk up. I glance over the back of the couch, watching Milo as he enters the apartment, eyes glued to his phone. He looks so relaxed in his jeans and T-shirt, making my insides tighten. I don’t look away, telling myself that it’s because I want to see what snarky shirt he’s wearing today, except that’s a lie. A big one.

I want nothing more than to look at him while simultaneously thinking about the feel of him holding me. Of his hands dipping into my panties and—stop! I need to stop. This is not how this is going to go.

“You’re still up?” he says, slipping his phone into his back pocket and walking over to join me.

I glance at the oven clock, confused as to why he thinks I would be in bed. “It’s nine fifteen.”

“Right, so almost bedtime.”

“Maybe for you, old man,” I quip.

“I value my sleep, when I can.” He shrugs one shoulder, as if his response should have gone without saying.

More importantly, he rounds the couch, wordlessly lifting my legs and parking himself next to me. Same way he did on the boat. Self-consciousness rushes through me, accompanying panicked thoughts about if I should tuck my legs in closer, giving him his own space. He put himself there though, so he must be okay with it, right? He also wouldn’t be absentmindedly running his hand over my ankles if he was bothered by them. Unless that’s his silent signal to move.

Shit…

“How’s studying going?” he asks, still acting as if he doesn't have a care in the world. “Anything I can help with?”

Alrighty then. If he doesn't have one, neither will I.

“You want to involve yourself in the thrilling world of compounding?”

Milo’s face contorts, like I just made him eat a pickled lemon. “Only if we can stick to hydrogen bonds, because those I remember. Sorta. As long as they’re related to ethanol.”

I manage to suppress the laughter bubbling up in me. I know that Milo didn’t mean for his answer to be funny. Or, at least I don’t think he did. Either way, I don’t need to be over here giggling like a teenybopper fangirling over a boy band.

“So you can help as long as it’s alcohol related?”

“Basically.”

“Good to know.” The conversation lulls, leaving only the muffled sounds of conversation coming from the TV. It feels awkward, like one of us should say something. But I’m not sure what. So I go with the first thing that comes to mind. “Speaking of, figured out a name for the beer yet?”

“Ugggh,” he groans, throwing his head back. “Not even close. I’ve been racking my brain for weeks, and I got nothing. The beer is good. Damn good, if I do say so myself.”

“Of course.”

He sits up, giving me that wide, bright smile that threatens to set my panties on fire. “Everything about this beer is going great. It’s been a lot of work—getting up extra early to be over at the brew house so I can get it all done before opening Pour Decisions at night, but it’s all going to be worth it. Because this beer is everything we want it to be, and I know that it’s gonna be insanely popular. I just gotta figure out a fucking name for the thing.”

“So, you’re not avoiding me then?”

The question is out of me faster than I can stop it. It’s an abrupt transition, one I could have handled better. A lot better. It’s meant as a joke—a casual barb between friends about how busy he is and how we haven’t seen each other in what feels like forever. Only, that’s not how it lands. At all. Hell, it’s not even Kerri Strug—sticking the landing but limping off afterward. Nope. This baby was doomed from launch, missing half of the spins in the air and landing flat on its ass.

Go me.

Milo freezes, his hands on my legs stilling, as the weirdness rushes through the door I just threw open. I need to fix this. Need to say something that will make it seem like it was a joke. Even if it only half was.

I open my mouth to try to backpedal, but then snap it shut as Milo looks over at me. His blue eyes are heavy, filled with a power that I feel in my core. One that if I didn’t know better, I would think was…guilt.

No. That’s absolutely guilt.

Clearing his throat, he nervously rubs the back of his neck. He looks away from me for a second, as if he has to compose himself for whatever he’s about to tell me. My insides squeeze all over again, but this time the tightness is laced with anxiety, not lust.

“It wasn’t my sole motive,” he says softly. His eyes flick up, meeting mine. I swear they got bluer in the thirty seconds he looked away. “But I’d be lying if I said it didn’t play a part.”

My heart sinks. No, it plummets. Straight past my stomach—which suddenly aches—shooting out of me and creating a crater in the ground. Milo’s been avoiding me. Sure, he’s been busy with work, but he’s also been avoiding me.