Miles:Not true. You and jalapeño kettle chips are tied in my heart.
Me:Are you flirting with me or the chips?
Miles:Both. But the chips don’t look at me like you do.
Me:Gross. Now I’m blushing. Hurry up and get here before I lose my nerve.
Miles:Already outside. Look up.
I glance down through the upstairs window. Sure enough, there he is, talking with Joel under the rainbow icicle lights, hands shoved in his jacket pockets, beanie pulled low over his ears. He’s smiling. Even from up here, I can see that slow, slightly crooked, completely unfair smile aimed up in my direction.
My heart does this…thing. Like someone’s taken a fistful of confetti and jammed it into my ribcage.
There is literally no reason to be this nervous. We’ve been swapping texts, sharing our most embarrassing Spotify Wrapped stats, and making out like teenagers in every available supply closet all week. I’ve had my tongue in his mouth and my hand in his pants…well, technically my knees on the mop bucket and my dignity somewhere in the HVAC system, but who’s counting.
Yet here I am, bracing myself against the doorframe, trying to remember whether I put on deodorant and whether my breath smells like Altoids or the seven coffees I stress-drank while cleaning all day. I do a quick check-in with myself. Am I nervous? Yes. Am I pretending not to be nervous by fidgeting with my rings and adjusting my collar every six seconds? Also yes. Am I going to self-destruct if this conversation goessideways? I’d rather not, but history suggests it is a non-zero possibility.
It’s another painfully slow minute before I hear the clomp of his boots on the stairs leading up from the main club, and another thirty seconds or so before he steps into the room. He’s in a soft Henley under a gray wool coat, hair artfully messy, grin already locked on me like he’s got some kind of May-detecting radar.
“Hey, gorgeous.”
My heart does something I won't describe in detail, because I’m still pretending to have at least 30% chill. “Hey yourself, handsome. Running late?”
“I had a late shift at the B&B.” He smirks. “Mal and Liam tried to feed me to death. I barely escaped.”
“A tragic fate,” I say. “Death by scone.”
We stand there in the middle of the empty upstairs lounge, smiling at each other like complete doofs for much longer than I am willing to own up to. This man scrambles my brain whenever he’s within a square mile, I swear. Needing to move the night along before I do something completely idiotic, like dropping to my knees and recreating Monday’s scene but with the roles reversed this time as I choke myself on his cock again…where was I going with that again? Oh, right. Moving the night along.
Clearing my throat quickly, I lean in, lowering my voice. “Come with me.”
Miles raises a brow. “Is this a kidnapping? Because if it is, I should warn you, I have very few boundaries and a well-documented weakness for men in sheer fabric.”
“I’ll take my chances,” I reply, grabbing his hand and leading him toward the door marked Staff Only behind the bar up here. I can feel the heat of his palm in mine, steady and grounding. We push through the door onto the small landingthat serves as a makeshift supply closet, then to the battered turquoise door that leads to my apartment. I unlock it with a practiced flick of my wrist and step inside, pulling him in after me.
My apartment is not glamorous. It’s basically a one-bedroom with a postage-stamp kitchen, a couch that’s older than some of my performers, and a lot of framed classic movie posters. There’s a shelf of wigs in one corner, because of course there is, and a huge window on the far wall looking out the back of the building toward the mountain, frosted over with the beginnings of a new snowfall.
Miles looks around, grinning. “Cozy. I like it.”
I glance over my shoulder, suddenly unsure. “It’s nothing fancy.”
“Neither am I.” He shrugs off his coat and drops onto the couch, patting the space next to him. “I mean, I have layers, but they’re mostly flannel and emotional repression. And there is a refreshing lack of candy cane paint jobs and giant gumdrops stuck to the walls.”
I snort, kicking off my shoes and settling beside him. The couch springs creak, but it’s familiar, the kind of creak you only get from a well-loved piece of furniture, or from the knees of a forty-something drag queen after a death drop.
He laughs, a warm rumble that settles my nerves. “Can I kiss you, or is that against the house rules?”
This man. Two weeks back in Sleighbell Springs, and he’s already wormed his way back into all my soft spots. “Kitchen’s purely ornamental and off-limits, but living room makeouts are strongly encouraged.”
“Noted.”
He leans in, and I meet him halfway. Our lips brush gently at first, then greedily. I taste peppermint and longing on his lips as our tongues tangle. My free hand slips onto hischest, tugging him closer until he’s pressed against me and the outside world is nothing but a faint vibration through the old floorboards.
I want so badly to get lost in this kiss, to let this play out and sweep us away until we’re tangled up, panting, and spent, but I promised myself I would keep things under control tonight. I had a plan, a checklist that I will hate myself for if I don’t at least attempt to get through it. With great reluctance, I pull away from the kiss and scoot back on the couch, putting a little distance between us for good measure.
“So, here’s the thing,” I say, cutting through the tension. “We’re going to talk.”
He blinks, leaning back just enough to give me space. “Right now?”
