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All I want is Miles. The kiss. To return to that moment and make it last forever, with none of the guilt of what comes after.
“Yeah,” I murmur.
Mom frowns. She’s picked up on my mood too.
“Hey.” She kneels beside me, taking my hand. “Things are going to get better at work. I promise. One day, you won’t have to put up with mean men barking orders at you. You’ll have yourownrestaurant.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I say, attempting to put some passion in my voice.
It’s reasonable for Mom to assume my mood comes from work. The head chef, Graham, has been riding me hard ever since I mentioned I dreamed of having my own kitchen one day. He seems to have taken it as a personal affront.
“Now, let me make us all a delicious feast.”
Mom grins, stands, and laughs when Noah sweeps her into his arms.
This is one of the worst aspects of my betrayal. I’m not able to feel excited for Mom, happy she’s finally found a man who respects and loves her after years of raising me alone.
Each time they show their love, I slingshot through time to the wedding and the kiss. It was the first and last time I ever saw Miles.
Sure, I was making eyes at him all night, to where Tess, my bestie, commented on it.
“You know he’s going to be your uncle, right?”
I played it off, pretending I wasn’t interested, but I couldn’t hide the truth from myself. The desire wouldn’t go away. It still won’t.
“I’m going to freshen up.”
They hardly hear me, absorbed with each other. Mom laughs in pure joy—a joy I havenoright to end—when Noah picks her up and carries her into the kitchen.
In my bedroom, I run a comb through my hair. It’s wild at the best of times, but I manage to tame it. I’m tempted to change into something which shows off my figure a little more, but that would be a mistake, like the kiss was a mistake.
I can’t expect Miles to want me still. I shouldn’t care. Idon’tcare, except I can’t lie to myself.
From downstairs, I hear the doorbell and voices raised in warm greetings. It would be easier to stay up here and feign an illness. And then what? Pretend to be ill for the next couple of weeks while Miles stays with us?
I can’t run from this forever.
“And you remember Layla,” Mom says when I walk down the stairs.
Miles stands in the hallway, his suitcase next to him, wearing a plain gray T-shirt that doesn’t help my wayward mind. The fabric’s color highlights his muscles, his broad chest, and the flat sheet of his abs.
His eyes narrow slightly when he turns to me. The corner of his mouth twitches, whether in a grimace or a smirk. I’m not sure.
“Nice to see you again, Layla,” he says, not even looking at me.
“And you,” I reply. “I hope you had a good flight.”
“Can’t complain,” he grunts.
“I’ve made us some lunch,” Mom goes on. “I hope you’re hungry.”
Finally, Miles looks at me fully. His eyes get that intense look from a year ago—the look I devoured as he leaned closer and closer, then finally pressed his lips against mine.
“Starving,” he says huskily.
I turn to avoid his gaze. I can’t look at him when he’s staring with so much implication.
“I’ll set the table,” I say, striding through the house.
