He smiles, and it hits me like a punch to the chest—how easy it would be to fall for him if I let myself.
But I can’t. I know better.
I’ve spent too many years rebuilding myself, too many nights convincing myself I’m finally okay. Miles is my friend—my safe place—and I can’t risk that.
Still, when he yawns and stretches, muscles flexing under his sweatshirt, I can’t help but smile.
“Long day?” I ask.
“Long week,” he says with a groan. “But tonight was worth it.”
“Even with the firepit pasta?”
“Especially with the firepit pasta.”
He sets his bowl in the sink beside mine. “Thanks for hanging out, Sunshine.”
“Anytime,” I say softly.
As he heads toward the hallway, he pauses and turns back. “We’ll try again soon. Maybe tacos next time. They can’t be that hard.”
“Deal.”
He gestures to the kitchen. “No cleanup tonight. I’ll help tomorrow. I have early practice, and I’m beat.”
“Okay.” I nod.
When he disappears down the hall, I lean against the counter, my heart still doing that stupid fluttering thing.
The kitchen is warm and messy, smelling faintly of burnt sauce and toasted bread. The day with Miles wasn’t without its hiccups, yet somehow it was absolutely perfect.
As is most of the time I spend with him.
CHAPTER
FIFTEEN
MILES
Our house smells like barbecue and beer—two of my favorite scents.
I glance around, surveying the scene. The living room has been transformed into a full-blown team hangout zone. Catering trays line the kitchen counter—ribs, pulled pork sliders, mac and cheese, coleslaw, the works. Miranda insisted on having the party catered, and I didn’t disagree. When it comes to food and guests, leave it to the professionals.
“Dude,” Finn says from the couch, raising a beer. “You’ve officially outdone yourself. This spread is legendary.”
“Correction,” I say, tossing him a napkin, “Miranda outdid herself. I just helped carry the trays inside and taste tested the mac.”
“I think you two are the new official Crane party hosts.” He plops an entire pulled pork slider in his mouth.
I laugh. “Let’s not go that far. We can spread the joy of hosting around.”
Miranda steps out of the kitchen carrying a platter of chicken skewers, and every conversation in the room seems to dip a littlequieter. She’s wearing simple jeans and a soft cream sweater, her hair loose around her shoulders. Nothing fancy—but she doesn’t have to try. She just glows.
“Okay, people,” she says brightly, setting the tray down. “Eat before the guys devour everything. And by guys, I mean Logan.”
Logan, already holding two plates, raises his hands. “Hey, I burn calories faster than anyone here.”
If Gunner, our goalie, were here, I might argue. That guy definitely eats the most. But Logan can pack it in.
