Someone bumps into me, then something cold and wet soaks my sleeve. Reflex has me breaking eye contact, and regretting it immediately. When I look back, Summer’s turned away.
And I’m moving again.
TWENTY-FOUR
“Thanks for coming out tonight,”I cut off the guy at my side. “Excuse me.”
I need air.
Everyone is too close. It’s too hot in here.
“Oh, sure thing,” the guy says, planting a hand on the bar and leaning into it.
Someone bumps into my side. Rather than trying to push my way out, I duck under the guy’s arm and make a beeline for the glowing exit sign.
I pray it doesn’t have an alarm that screams the second the door opens. Either way, I’m committed. The metal bar gives under my hands, and winter air stings my exposed skin, making my breath hitch. The door slams shut behind me. I bend, resting my hands on my knees, gasping.
Why does he have to be so…him?
That song came out before I’d decided to sing it. My eyes found his like they were magnetized, just like that first day when he stumbled into my path.Twice.
A couple of lingering looks, and I’m putty. I’m smiling at him like he’s my favorite person in the room. Because he is, isn’the? How does he manage it? And why still? After he pushed me away? After he told me he didn’t have anything to give?
I shouldn’t still want him. When someone says they’re not interested, you’re supposed to listen. To move on.
But that’s not what he said. He’sscared. Of something I don’t understand yet.
The metal clicks behind me, and Miles bursts through. He takes a couple of steps past me, looks left, then right, before he spots me.
Two long strides and he’s in front of me. “Christ, Summer, you’re going to freeze to death.”
“I’m fine.” My teeth chatter despite my attempt to steady them.
He’s already tugging his quarter-zip over his head, leaving him in only a thin black T-shirt. Before I can protest, he slips it over my head. It falls to my mid-thigh, still warm from his body.
The sleeves fall past my hands when I slip my arms through. I fist the extra fabric to warm them. Not my smartest decision, coming outside in February in a tank top.
Dorothy, we’re not in Nashville anymore.
I tuck my nose into the collar, breathing in pine and peppermint.
Miles crosses his arms, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Are you okay?”
I pull the sweater tighter around myself, drowning in fabric that smells like him. “Yeah. Just needed some air.”
He nods.
“Sorry, you’re probably freezing.” I pull at the material. “Want this back?”
He huffs—not quite a laugh, but something close—and shakes his head. “No.”
Just as silence settles between us, a shrill horn sounds somewhere in the distance.
“You were incredible in there,” he says, then clears his throat.
I twist the fabric around my fingers. “Thanks.”
Wind whips through the alley, blowing hair into my face. I try to push it back, but another gust makes it hopeless.
