We chat all the way to the house, and my heart is happy. We haven’t even arrived at Miles’s place yet, and I already know that this arrangement will be better for me. If I were still back in the hotel, I’d have the Game Show Network muted on the TV while I went through social media posts referencing Anna. I’m damn good at my job, and I’m proud of the benefits I bring to Anna’s career, but if I’m honest with myself, perhaps I do a little too much. Maybe, just maybe, I focus so much on her and my job as her publicist/assistant in an effort to avoid my own life.
It only takes two trips from the truck to the house to bring in all the food and my suitcases. Arms full of bags, I plop a load of our goods onto the counter. I pull out the carton of strawberries and open the refrigerator to put them away.
“You are kidding me!” I shriek through a laugh.
The refrigerator looks brand new, save for a bottle of Sriracha, ketchup, and mustard, and a handful of Taco Bell hot sauces. I quickly close the refrigerator door and hurry to the pantry. Opening the door, I’m met with three containers of protein powder and empty shelves.
Miles hurries into the kitchen. “What is it?”
I march over to the refrigerator, open the door, grab the five packets of hot sauce, and toss them at him. “Admit it!” I say through a fit of laughter.
“Admit what?” Miles feigns innocence.
“You know what.It must be a Cali thing,” I say the last sentence in a mocking tone.
Miles presses his lips together, struggling to contain a laugh. “Fine. I use delivery services for a lot of my meals, too.”
“A lot of them? I’d say all of them, given the contents of your kitchen. Where are all your snacks, Miles? What if you have late-night cravings? You gonna suck down some mustard?” I giggle.
“Hey, I’m just looking out for you. Just because I don’t follow my own advice doesn’t mean I’m not right.”
I raise a brow. “Have you ever made a box of pudding for a snack in your life?”
“Probably when I was young, maybe. Or at least my mom did.”
“Exactly, which means that my bottle of dried tarragon is going to be just as useful as your box of pudding.”
“Pfft,” Miles protests. “I’m making that pudding. You’ll see.”
“Uh-huh.”
“I still think I won our little grocery shopping game.” He shrugs.
“It wasn’t a competition.”
He pins me with a stare. “Everything is a competition. And, look, I have good taste in food, which is why I order it on most days. I’m busy. I don’t have time to cook.”
I wave my hand in front of me toward the empty pantry. “I see that. I just found our mandatory outing, so ‘I don’t starve’”—I raise my fingers in air quotes—“a little hilarious given the state of your kitchen. That’s all.”
In several long strides, he’s in front of the counter where he pulls out a box of cheese crackers. “Well, don’t worry because now we have food.”
I stare at the box of crackers. “But we’re still ordering in for dinner?” I cross my arms across my chest.
“Of course.” He grins. “Now, let’s get this stuff put away so we aren’t late for the movie.”
“Sounds like a plan.”
CHAPTER
NINE
MILES
Igrip the handle above the passenger-side window as if my life depends on it. And while my life has flashed through my eyes more times than I’d care to admit in the last hour, I don’t think this handle is going to do much if I’m T-boned. My truck being huge plays in my favor—so while another car smashing into my side might not kill me, it’d still hurt.
“Press the button to start it up,” I say as calmly as I can.
“I am! I am!” Miranda shrieks, hammering the ignition button. My truck is an automatic. I have no idea how she stalled it in the first place, but the fact that it happened in the middle of an intersection isn’t helping the stress factor.
