His gaze lifts from the screen. “Sesame chicken with fried rice and a side of crab rangoons.”
My heart twists. “How did you know that was my favorite?”
“Because you’ve ordered it every time we’ve gotten Chinese.”
“It’s just weird that you remember that.”
“Of course I remember.” He taps his temple with a small, proud smile. “I remember everything about you.”
I swallow hard, unsure how to respond.
He continues quickly, his tone easy. “I mean, that’s what friends do. I’m sure Anna knows your Chinese order.”
“Yeah, probably,” I say, though my voice sounds thinner than I want it to.
Returning his focus to his phone, he finishes placing the order. “It’ll be here in thirty minutes.”
“Oh, did you get extra?—”
He cuts in with a knowing grin. “Hot mustard and sweet and sour sauce to dip your rangoons in? Yes.”
I can’t help but smile widely. “You really are a pretty good roommate.”
“Oh, I know.”
“Should we start the next movie while we wait?” I ask.
He gestures grandly toward the living room. “After you, Sunshine.”
I roll my eyes but can’t hide my smile as I brush past him, feeling the faint warmth of his arm as I do. It’s barely anything—just the kind of ordinary touch that shouldn’t matter.
But it does.
Everything about Miles matters to me.
And I’m doing my best not to think about why.
CHAPTER
THIRTEEN
MILES
Ithought I’d do a lot of things in my life—win championships, travel the world, maybe learn how to make a proper omelet—but cooking dinner with Miranda Sinclair while she hums along to a 2000s pop playlist wasn’t one of them.
Yet, here I am—barefoot in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, wooden spoon in hand, pretending I have the slightest idea what I’m doing.
It’s hard to wrap my head around the fact that I’ve only known Miranda for six months. It feels like she’s been in my life forever. From the first time we met, we just clicked. We became fast friends, and now that we live together, I get to see my favorite person every single day.
She’s standing across from me, hair piled on top of her head in a messy bun, wearing one of my oversized Crane Hockey shirts and a pair of leggings that hug her perfect legs in a way I’m trying—really trying—not to notice.
“This is going to be a disaster,” I tell her, eyeing the ingredients she’s laid out like a contestant onTop Chef: Chaos Edition.
She tilts her head, unconcerned. “That’s what makes it fun.”
“Fun?” I repeat, picking up the packet of noodles she dropped on the counter. “That’s one word for it. Another might behazardous.”
She narrows her eyes at me, pointing a spatula like a weapon. “You agreed to help, so no complaining.”
