I sit straight, shoving my hair out of my face and tugging my sleep shirt up to make sure everything’s covered. “Yeah.”
The door opens, and he leans against the frame, already dressed in jeans and a dark Henley, hair damp from the shower, glasses in place.
God, he looks good. And I probably look like I wrestled my bedding and lost. I groan. “You didn’t say crack-of-dawn skating.”
“It’s nearly noon.” He smiles, and I can’t help but return it.
“Semantics,” I mutter.
“Coffee?” He holds up one of two travel mugs.
“Lots of cream, one sugar,” I check.
He chuckles. “Yep.”
“Hand it over.”
He crosses the room and places it in my hand. Our fingers brush, and I’m all too aware of the contact. I pull the mug close and wrap both hands around it, just to have something to do with them. A flush spreads through me that I blame on the hot beverage and not his proximity.
His eyes drop to the covers pooling around my waist, and something flickers across his face before he runs a hand through his hair.
“C’mon. Get dressed.” He’s already backing toward the door. “Wear layers.”
I take a sip of coffee to avoid responding immediately.
“I’m going to need at least twenty minutes and maybe another one of these.” I tip my head toward my mug.
“Okay, princess.” He shakes his head, but looks amused. “I’ll be downstairs.”
Thirty minutes and one caffeine refill later, I’m downstairs in thermal leggings, jeans over them, and my thickest sweater.
Miles doesn’t seem to mind my delay. He’s by the front door, my coat already in his hands. “Ready?”
I turn and slide my arms into the sleeves. His hands linger on my shoulders after he’s helped me shrug it on. I’m hyperaware of his warmth at my back, the weight of his palms. The zipper sounds loud in the quiet house.
When I turn back, we’re standing close enough that I have to tilt my head to look at him. Close enough that I could reach out and?—
I don’t. Instead, I step back, putting space between us.
He opens the door, the cold air slicing in. It’s a relief, cooling my heated cheeks.
He clears his throat. “One stop first.”
Miles insists on stopping at a sporting goods store, despite my protests about rentals. He says they don’t offer them where we’re going. But he still won’t tell me exactly where that is.
I’m now the proud owner of cream-colored hockey skates that probably cost more than my rent in Nashville, which I’m still paying, so I have a place to go back to in June.
My stomach feels light and heavy in equal measure as we walk back to the truck. It’s not even about the money. But that I can’t think of a single person who has ever taken care of me the way Miles does. Quietly. Without making it feel like a transaction or a favor to be returned. He just does it.
“Thank you,” I tell him as he opens my door.
He pauses, one hand on the frame. “You’re welcome.” He squeezes my shoulder once before closing it, the touch careful compared to how he held me last night.
The drive isn’t far, maybe another twenty minutes.
Then we’re trudging through the woods, breath clouding in the frigid air, snow crunching under our boots. Miles carries both pairs of skates over his shoulder while I focus on not tripping.
“You know,” I say, “this is exactly how every true crime documentary starts. ‘She followed him into the woods. No one ever saw her again.’”
