“So.” Miles leans back in his chair and crosses his legs like he doesn’t have a care in the world. Must be nice. “On a scale of one to ten, how do you think today went?”
Three.
But only because of my abysmal likes.
Social media aside, it was a solid ten. Slowing down, seeing the country, spending time with Miles. It was everything I could have hoped for. And the jar of Uncle Lou’s orange marmalade Miles bought me?
It waschef’s kiss.
“Six,” I finally say, splitting the difference.
He studies me, and it’s a struggle not to squirm under his appraising stare. “If one endless hour of Elvis Presley crooning about sad-sack jailbirds rates a six, I can only imagine what horrors you’ll unleash for a perfect ten.”
I laugh in spite of myself. “If you’re scared, I can always drop you off at the nearest airport. Just say the word, Hart.”
“Do your worst.” He takes a pull on his beer, and when he speaks again, there’s conviction behind his words. “I’m in this trip for the long haul.”
That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.
Not that I’d ever admit it to him. I know better than to show weakness. He didn’t get where he is today being ruled by fear, and if I want to win this bet, I can’t let it rule me, either.
“How would you rate the day?”
He rubs his jaw, which is sporting a scruffy five o’clock shadow, and pretends to consider. “I’d give it an eight. I’m deducting two points for the jukebox.” He shudders. “If I never hear ‘Jailhouse Rock’ again, it’ll be too soon.”
“You’re deducting two whole points for the music?” I scoff. “You really are a manbaby.”
He shoots me a dark look. “I resent that.”
“Resent away.” I tip my bottle to him in mock salute. “Sometimes the truth hurts.”
It’s a bald-faced lie. Miles is not a manbaby. Not by a long shot. But at least if we’re picking at each other, we’re not flirting…or whatever that was with the panties this morning. I’ve been doing my damndest not to think about it all day, yet there it is, front and center in my thoughts: an image of Miles running his fingers over the delicate lace.
A shiver races up my spine.
“Are you cold? I can run inside and grab a blanket.”
If only it were that simple.
“I’m good.” I tip the beer to my lips and take a long drink, forcing all thoughts of Miles and panties from my brain. Those kinds of thoughts can only lead to heartbreak. “I should probably get up and get dinner started, anyway.”
“Let me guess,” he deadpans, the corner of his mouth curving up in a sexy smirk. “Hot dogs again?”
I’m scrambling for a comeback when a small hatchback turns down the lane. Its headlights reflect off the Airstream, damn near blinding me. There’s a sign on the passenger door, but I can’t quite make it out with the white dots blocking my vision. I throw up a hand to shield my eyes as the car rolls to a stop at our campsite.
DoorDash.
I turn to Miles, shooting him aWTF?look, but he doesn’t notice because he’s already launching himself out of his chair in his haste to get to the vehicle.
He greets the driver, a tiny woman with a big smile, who gets out and hands him a brown paper bag. I watch in stunned silence as he thanks her profusely, and then she climbs back into the vehicle and continues down the lane, taillights glowing.
Un-freaking-believable.
“What is that?” I demand, climbing to my feet and stalking across the grassy lot.
He holds the bag up, a sly grin spreading across his face. “Panera.”
“Cut the crap, Miles. Why is DoorDash delivering food to our campsite?”
