Curling my arm around the pot, I carry it toward the front entrance. Vince nods at me, opening the door to let us through.
Miles has a bag over his shoulder, like he came straight from the airport.
“I hope you didn’t waste money on a hotel room, because that isnothappening,” I say with a wry smile. Miles is definitely staying with me. Every single second that he’s here.
Miles laughs. “I was hoping you’d say that.”
“How’d you find me?”
“Oh, you know. There’s this handy thing called Google.”
“I mean, how’d you know which bar? I don’t remember mentioning it.”
Miles lowers his gaze briefly. “I’ve seen some public posts you’ve shared on Facebook. Speaking of which, why aren’t we official Facebook friends yet?”
A bubble of laughter slips out my throat, surprising me. “Hell if I know. I’m only on there for the plant group. I don’t post things, other than occasional work shit.”
“Yeah, same here. Anyway, I figured a bar with the name Graham in it had to be the one you told me about.”
He even remembered Graham’s name. My heart squeezes.
I let go of Miles’ hand to hit the button on my key fob, then we load everything into the trunk. When we open the doors, I cringeat the mess on the seats. “Sorry about the depression hoard. If I knew you were coming—”
“It’s fine.”
“It’s not.” Shame fills me as I toss loads of take-out bags and empty soda cans to the back so he can get in. This isn’t how I wanted Miles to see me.
Miles tilts his head, reaching for me with both hands. His eyes are soft, warm, and inviting. “It’s okay, Jordan. Really.”
His touch, along with his kind tone, instantly calms me. My shoulders relax. “How long are you here for?”
“I fly out stupid early on Tuesday morning.”
I take his hand and thread our fingers together, lifting them to my lips. “That means I get you for two and a half days, then.”
His cheeks puff out again, and he exhales hard, like he'd been nervous about showing up out of the blue. For a long moment, we say nothing, then his stomach growls.
“Is there anywhere to eat this late? I’m hungry.”
Now that he mentions it, I am too. “If you don’t mind tacos, I know somewhere close.”
Miles’ laugh fills the small space, burrowing into my heart. “Who doesn’t like tacos?”
My cheeks ache from smiling so big, but when I try to smooth it down, it just curls back up. I mean, Miles flew here.For me.No one has ever done something like that for me.
We end up at the taco shack near the beach, surrounded by rope lights and cheap patio furniture. Scratchy music plays from old speakers and chipped salsa bowls rest on every table, tiny sombreros swinging from the mismatched umbrellas. Tonight, a small crowd mills about, but the people don’t bother me. The only thing I’m focused on is the man beside me. We haven’t let go of each other since we climbed out of the car.
It’s late enough that the air has cooled and the lights from the city blur out the edges of everything. The waves crash in thedistance, making me wonder if Miles would be up for a late-night stroll in the sand. It’s been years since I’ve done that.
It’s been years since I’ve evenwantedto do that.
We sit at one of the plastic tables, paper plates loaded with carne asada, al pastor, and greasy tortilla chips. I bite into a taco and groan. “So much better than work food.”
Miles’ laugh is easy, like he’s known me for years. “Is that what you usually eat? Work food?”
I pick up a piece of meat that fell from my taco and eat it. “Declan deducts the meals from my paycheck, so it’s just easier.”
Easier than trying to take care of myself when the darkness hovers, that is. Cooking and eating healthy is a chore way beyond my means.
