I struggled beneath the fifteen-pound ball of fur, relieved when she finally hopped off. I then ripped the pillow from under my head and sat up, looking for the miscreant.
When I locked eyes with the pesky feline, she had the nerve to glare. “Minerva Cassiopeia of the Queen Anne Chunk. I don’t know what you plan on accomplishing with that rude interruption of my attempted nap, but—”
I cut myself off with a finger pointed in her direction, letting my annoyance deflate when all she did was tilt her head before walking out the door.
“Fine. Fine. I see your point. To the shower, I go.”
I needed the extra time anyway to pamper myself a bit more than normal, paying particular attention to shaving and conditioning my hair so it could be tamed into something resembling artful curls. If the conversation with Miller tonight led to otherthings, I needed to take a page out of his book andshowhim I’d made an effort.
On the second pass of strawberry-scented red gloss over my lips, a sharp knock startled me from my vanity, and I stood, smoothing the wrinkles from my green wrap dress. I pressed a hand to my stomach and adjusted the clip in my hair before turning toward the door and shaking my head.
Where had these nerves come from?
This was Miller—one of my best friends and a man I’d come to count on. The unexpected anxiety I felt had to be from overthinking every interaction we’d had since middle school, wondering when things shifted to this weird, ridiculous limbo. Sighing, I shook my head, rolling my eyes as a curl escaped the clip that held them away from my face.
Schooling my features in the hopes that he wouldn’t see my frazzled and exposed nerves, I opened the door to find him leaning against the frame with one leg crossed over the other.
His hands were behind his back, and as he quirked one eyebrow, he pulled a bottle of white wine from one hand. I smiled, shaking my head as he pushed off the doorframe and pulled a bottle of red wine from his other hand.
“Hey, babe. I wasn’t sure what we were doing for dinner, so I brought a selection for you.”
“Thanks,” I said, taking the white wine as he followed me inside and to the kitchen. “I thought I’d cook. Does chicken cutlets with a melon and prosciutto salad sound okay?”
“Okay? That sounds amazing. You’re not trying to butter me up just to give me bad news, are you?”
“What? No. Of course not,” I said, swallowing harshly as I took the chicken from the fridge. Miller chuckled, retrieving two wine glasses and a bottle opener from the drawer beside the sink. My eyes were unfocused as I stared at the main course, wondering if this was a big mistake. Would he think I was cooking this dinner only to let him down easy afterward?
No.
He had been brave enough to kiss me, so I could be brave enough to tell him I wanted more.
More kisses and touches. More of him around in the morning and more going to sleep with my head on his chest. Real dateswhere he held the door open for me and referred to me as his girlfriend.More of everything.
There wouldn’t be crazy proclamations of love or proposals, only the acceptance of my decision to very much wantmore.
Just thinking about Miller andlovehad my traitorous stomach fluttering, and I knew if things progressed the way I thought they would, a four-letter-word confession would not be far off.
“You sure about that? Your face is doing something weird.”
“What? No, it’s not. This is just my face,” I snapped, brandishing a knife from the drawer.
“Whoa, there, pretty lady,” he said, holding his hands up and grinning like a loon. His posture was relaxed, but the little lines around his eyes gave away the underlying tension between us.
“Oh. I’m sorry. This is weird, right? Please tell me you feel it, too.”
“Yeah.” He chuckled, popping the cork from the bottle and pouring a glass of wine. He handed it to me, letting our fingers brush before serving himself. Tingles followed where our fingers met, traveling across my hand and up my arm, only to rest someplace south of my heart. It felt of comfort and of home, pushing the nervousness away.
“Things are a little up in the air, aren’t they? But let’s have a nice dinner, then we’ll talk.”
“Right. Okay,” I said, taking a large sip of the wine before grabbing a small bowl from the cabinet next to the sink. Miller sank into one of the kitchen chairs as I worked, cracking the eggs, adding a bit of milk, and swirling some infused olive oil into a pan to be heated.
“Do you need help with anything?”
“No. No. All is well. The salad is made, and the potatoes are in the oven. All that’s left is cooking the chicken and making thesauce. How was your day?” I asked, breading several chicken cutlets and adding them to the hot pan.
“Oh, good. It’s the same old thing. Did I tell you that the showroom at TriVolt is finally complete? Simon and I are working on the last of the light fixtures. The response from walk-ins and current customers has been positive so far, and there’s one display in particular I know you’ll love.”
“Wonderful. I’d love to see it. Does your mom know?”
