“Did I hurt your ego?”
Dizzy, the spinning halts, and I hold her to me. Her back pressed against my front, I pinch her sides, tickling her.
“I do not have an ego,” I protest.
She squirms against me. The wind blows her long hair into my face, and the fruity scent that lingers from her shampoo does something to my insides. Desire circles within, and I relish the feeling of her body in my grasp. I let her go.
She steps away and turns to face me, her cheeks a rosy pink. “Are you kidding me? Of course you do. All you guys do. I don’t think there is a professional sports player who doesn’t.”
“Hey!”
“It’s not a bad thing,” she continues. “Doesn’t mean you’re a jerk or anything.”
“Good, because I’m not.”
She inches closer and places her hands on my shoulders. “Believe me, Miles. I know you’re not. You’re one of the nicest guys I know. Hell, you’re one of the nicest people I know. Anna loves me more than anyone else on this planet, and I’m pretty sure she would’ve thrown in the towel on my driving abilities after the first lesson.”
“So you’re saying I’m the better bestie?” I shoot her a wink.
“Ha, never. Anna and I go way back. You know that. I’ll give you the more patient bestie, though. You have the patience of steel, my friend. Literally anyone else would’ve bowed out as mydriving instructor by now. So what should we practice in this lot? Turning? Parallel parking?”
“I’m thinking we should practice turning the truck on and off until you get all the steps down.”
“Um, rude.” She feigns annoyance.
I raise a brow. “Or… valid.”
“Fine. You might have a point.”
CHAPTER
TEN
MIRANDA
Isit cross-legged on the couch, laptop balanced on my thighs, typing away. My morning has been nothing but emails, schedules, and coordinating the never-ending moving pieces of Anna’s career. My job has a lot of perks—mainly that I get to work with my best friend—but it also means that unless we’re filming or at an in-person meeting, I can do almost everything in my pajamas.
The front door clicks open, and Miles enters, freshly showered, his hair still damp from the rink. I look up from my screen. I’m wearing oversized sweatpants, zero makeup, and my hair is piled into a very questionable messy bun. Still, the moment his eyes land on me, a little self-conscious flutter sparks in my chest. Living with someone—having them see you in all your versions—is a whole new adjustment.
“Hey,” I say. “How was practice?”
He drops his duffel on the tile and gives me a slow once-over. “Practice was great, thank you.” Then his brows pull together. “How are you, and… what is on your face?”
It takes me a second before I remember. I lift a hand and tap the bright purple under-eye patches clinging to my skin. “These? They’re eye patches.”
He laughs. “What the hell is an eye patch? And why are you wearing it?”
“It’s for puffiness, and skincare, wrinkles, and stuff.”
“Uh-huh.” He steps closer and leans down to inspect me, his face way too amused for my comfort. “And this purple goo is supposed to do… what again?”
“It helps with under-eye puffiness, fine lines, wrinkles, dark circles?—”
He straightens, shaking his head. “You have none of those things, Miranda.”
“Well, maybe not now,” I say, “but this helps prevent future ones.”
“Really.” He crosses his arms, fully skeptical. “So that strip of… whatever that is… is your fountain of youth?”
