“Yes,” I quip. “It’s called skincare.”
He lifts his hands in surrender. “Okay. Skincare it is. Who am I to judge? I’ve just never seen those before.”
“Well,” I say, “now that you live with a woman, you’re going to see lots of things.”
He grins. “All right, fair enough. How’s your day going?”
“So far, so good. I’ve been working hard.”
“I see that.” His eyes dip over my outfit again.
“Hey, I’m allowed to work in my pajamas. It’s one of the perks of my job. I can sit here emailing people in my pj’s with my skincare on, and you are not allowed to judge.”
“I’m not judging.” He chuckles. “I’m just observing. I think it’s adorable.” His voice softens. “I think you are adorable.”
Heat rushes to my cheeks. I clear my throat and pretend to refocus on my laptop. “Whatever.”
“So,” he asks, that boyish smile tugging at his mouth, “are you hungry?”
“Oh my gosh, yes. I am so hungry.”
Just saying the words makes me realize I haven’t eaten a single thing all day. When I’m working, time slips away from me—I blink, and suddenly, it’s midafternoon, and my body is like,hey, remember food?
“Yeah, me too,” Miles says, dropping onto the other end of the couch. “I’m really craving Mexican.”
I gasp dramatically. “Oh my gosh—Mexican.Yes.Mexican sounds so good.”
He laughs at my enthusiasm. “Okay then, Mexican it is. I’ll put in a delivery order. What do you want?”
I immediately start listing off everything under the sun—enchiladas, chips and queso, carnitas tacos, and guacamole. The entire time, Miles just watches me with this amused, indulgent grin.
“What?” I ask defensively. “You’ve gotta order enough for leftovers.”
“Ah.” He nods.
“Mexican leftovers are the best.”
“They’re pretty damn good,” he agrees, pulling his phone out. He submits our ridiculous feast and then looks over. “Forty-five minutes. You know what I’m thinking?” he adds, leaning back.
“What’s that?”
“I think I need some skincare too.”
I tilt my head, confused. “What are you talking about?”
“I’m just saying… while we wait for our Mexican, I should do skincare.” He gestures vaguely at his face with both hands. “You know, for the future.”
I blink. “You don’t need skincare.” I can’t help the laugh that slips out.
“It’s for the future,” he repeats, throwing my own words back at me with a smirk. “I’m preventing all that stuff from happening. Just because I’m a guy doesn’t mean I don’t want good skin too.”
I nod. “Okay. Fair. You’re right.”
I set my laptop on the end table and hop off the couch. “Come on, let’s go do your skincare.”
He follows me down the hall. In my bathroom, I grab my little container of under-eye patches from the counter and start holding them up like I’m giving him a menu.
“So,” I say. “We’ve got options. The purple ones are for puffiness. The yellow ones have vitamin C—they’re supposed to be brightening or something. And the pink ones are for fine lines and wrinkles.”
