It’s the first time I’ve said it out loud. Everyone asks—my manager, musicians back in Nashville, my family—and I keep saying, “It’s coming along.” But it’s not. With my first studio session only days away, I need things to start clicking into place.
When the words do come, they’re like a skittish stray. I have to grab them before they bolt. And the ones I do catch? They’re scraggly little things that need more love and attention than I know how to give.
“I didn’t realize you wrote your own songs,” Miles says. “They only showed you doing covers onYou’re The One.”
“You watched the show?” I tuck my notepad into my purse with a promise to resist the urge to pull it out again. To hold the words and feelings and examine them later.
He grins. “Fox and Mia had weekly viewing parties. That’s why you looked so familiar.”
I’m used to being recognized. I signed up for it. The whole reason I did the show was to launch my music career. But Miles is the first person I’ve wished could just… not know. Who could meet me without the show already telling him who I am.
That version isn’t fully me, not really. On camera, or let’s be honest, in real life, people only see what you let them, the parts that feel safe to share.
Does he see the TV version now orme?
I angle toward him. “What’d you think of it?”
“It was… entertaining.” He drums his fingers on the back of my chair. “It suits you.”
“What does? Reality TV?” I shift in the chair until my shoulder bumps his arm.
“No.” He clears his throat. “The spotlight.”
God, I hope he’s right. It’s what I’ve been chasing for as long as I can remember.
“I have an idea.” He stands and holds a hand out. I let him tug me to my feet, and he steers us toward a booth tucked in the back corner of the bar.
“Be right back.” He gives my hand a quick squeeze before walking off, then returns a minute later with a long rectangular box.
“Scrabble?”
He slides into the seat opposite me. “You’re looking for words, aren’t you?”
My heart does a little flip. Quickly followed by Mia’s whispered words:have fun, but don’t expect anything beyond a night. That’s all he does.
“I know you wanted to take on the professional pickleballer, but will you settle for Scrabble?” Miles gives me a half-smile.
I snort. “Please tell me this isn’t your idea of foreplay.”
His foot loops around my ankle under the table. The simple touch makes goosebumps rise on my skin.
A quiet laugh escapes him as he leans in, and I meet him halfway across the table.
“Oh, honey,” he murmurs, his breath warm against my ear, “you’ve got no idea.”
He was right about turning Scrabble into seduction. Winning, though? Bless his heart.
One game turns into two, then three. Somewhere between the first word I laid on the board and now, hours havedisappeared. I have no clue how late it is. All I know is, sitting here with Miles has felt anything but lukewarm.
“That’s not a word.” I eye his latest play.
“Quixotic?” He leans back, arms crossed. “It absolutely is.”
“Use it in a sentence.” I cross my arms to match his.
“You thinking you’re going to win this game is quixotic.”
My head tips back as laughter bursts out. Spending a night with Miles King is a more effective abs workout than Pilates. “What does it mean?”
