We migrate to the bed, giggling like idiots. Fairy lights hang above the headboard, casting everything in a warm,forgiving glow. The window looks out over the back alley, snow still falling in fat, lazy flakes, while the neon from the Sleigh Queen sign throws a soft pink wash across the sheets.
I tuck my legs under me and pat the mattress beside me. Miles flops down with a groan. “This is the best bed I’ve been on in years,” he says, his voice muffled by the pillow.
I snicker. “You say that to all the boys.”
He props himself up on one elbow and meets my gaze, his smile softening. “No. Just you.”
Something in my chest goes molten.
We talk for a while. About the job, the town, and what it’ll be like for him to stay. He tells me about the horses, the barn cats, and how Mal and Hawk are already plotting to rope him into the next town fundraiser. I tell him about the Sleigh Queen’s Winter Fest plans, the new crop of baby queens, and how Patti wants to add a drag brunch, but I refuse to cook eggs for this many people unless I get hazard pay.
It’s easy. Stupidly easy. Lying here, listening to the wind rattle the window while Miles rubs slow circles on my thigh and I let myself lean into him.
Eventually, talking fades into touching, and the air between us thickens with something else. He kisses me again, deeper this time, and the way he moans against my mouth when I nip his lower lip makes me shiver. We peel off layers slowly, gentle and unhurried. His hands are big and rough, but he uses them like he’s afraid I might break. I tease him for it, but secretly, I love it. I love being seen like this.
He maps every inch of me, memorizing the shape of my ribs, the curve of my hip, the scar on my shoulder from when I fell off the loading dock during aPriscillanumber and insisted the show must go on. He kisses it, soft and reverent, and I feel more cherished in that moment than I have in years.
When he’s inside me, it’s slow and tender. No games, no power plays. Just two men trying to rewrite the past with every careful, deliberate touch. He holds my face in his hands, eyes locked on mine, and if I wasn’t already gone, that would have done it. I come first, messy and loud, clutching him close and gasping his name. He follows, shuddering against me, and for a long minute we just breathe, skin to skin, heartbeats tripping over each other in the quiet.
After we clean up as best we can, we collapse back into bed. The comforter is too warm, the sheets tangled, but neither of us moves to fix it. We just lie there, wrapped around each other, while the snow outside keeps falling.
Miles traces lazy patterns on my back, humming under his breath. “You ever think we’d get here?” he asks, his voice so soft I almost miss it.
“Not in a million years,” I admit. “But I’m glad we did.”
He nuzzles my neck, beard scratchy and perfect. “Me too. For what it’s worth, I’m in. All in. I want to see what forever looks like with you.”
I close my eyes and let the words settle over me like a blanket. For the first time, it doesn’t feel scary. It just feels right.
“Me too,” I say, and mean it.
Outside, the Sleigh Queen sign glows brighter against the snow. Downstairs, the club is silent. Up here, I’m exactly where I’m supposed to be.
Chapter Twelve
Miles
If you’d told seventeen-year-old Miles Dalton that he’d one day be prancing around in a mirrored room with a group of the most beautiful, unhinged performers in the Lower Forty-Eight, he’d have laughed himself sick. Then again, he never thought he’d get a do-over with the man of his dreams, either, so maybe this is all just par for the course. It’s Saturday afternoon, and somehow, against all odds, I have allowed myself to be lured into a dance studio with a half-dozen drag queens and a promise that no one will tell May what we’re really up to.
The dance studio itself is exactly what you’d expect in a town that lives for holiday charm all year long, with a creaky wood floor, one wall of mirrors, and a faint smell of lemon cleaner, sweat, and, inexplicably, sugar cookies. Sunlight bounces through the high windows, catching on the glitter dust that seems to follow Dee like a cloud wherever she goes. Scattered across the benches are sequined duffel bags, a box of donuts that Dee claims is “for morale,” at least three feather boas, and a portable speaker that looks like it could double as a small home-defense weapon.
Dixie’s at the front, straddling a folding chair in a neon tracksuit and blinding silver platform sneakers. She’s barking orders at me and Felix, who, despite being a full head shorterthan me, is somehow managing to intimidate the hell out of both of us with one perfectly arched brow.
Anna and Dee are off to the side, arguing over whether the routine should incorporate jazz hands or “more dignified gestural work,” whatever that means. Patti is, predictably, sprawled on the benches in cheetah-print leggings, with a flask and a pair of opera gloves, shouting suggestions that range from “more leg!” to “less of whatever that was, darling.”
Me? I’m in the middle of the floor, sweating through my T-shirt and joggers, wondering if I’ll ever regain feeling in my thighs. Jazz squares are, objectively, a hate crime.
“Okay, okay, bring it in,” Dixie yells, clapping her hands together with a smack that makes me wince. “We are not going to embarrass ourselves in front of the entire town again, you hear me? Last year’s fiasco is still trending in my group chat.”
“Wasn’t that the year Anna’s tuck failed mid-split?” Felix chimes in, deadpan.
“Yes, and it was a tragedy. Children were present,” Dee says, clutching her chest in mock horror.
“Y’all are just jealous,” Anna says, throwing a saucy wink at me, then turning to the others. “Focus. We have a mission.”
Right. The mission. Operation: Surprise May With a Dazzling Display of Miles Dalton in Tight Pants, title very much still up for debate, apparently.
It started on Wednesday at the bar after bingo. The pitch was simple when they all cornered me as May was cleaning up. The end-of-season tourist show is the biggest event of the year at Sleigh Queen, and they want me to help with a number. Not just backstage, but onstage. In full view of the whole town. In front of May. I probably should have run for the hills. Instead, I agreed. Because apparently, I’d do anything to see May’s face light up with shock, and maybe just a little of thatoh my god, that’s mymanpride. Which is why I’m here, sweating and red-faced while a gaggle of lovably bitchy queens judge my every move.
