I said I wanted the kind of love that ruins you. Yeah, I’m second-guessing that one—you know what? No, I’m not.
I glance at Miles. Little puffs of air brush against my skin as his arm tightens around my waist, and I know I won’t protect myself. Not against him.
I wouldn’t change a single second.
Even knowing how this ends, I can’t bring myself to let him go.
I’m not exactly known for giving up. My mama always said when I set my mind to something, watch out. Hopefully, she’s right.
Miles stirs with a groan, blinking against the light now shining in his eyes. They look honey brown when he peers up at me.
“Morning,” he mumbles, then kisses my shoulder. “You’ve been up?”
“Just for a bit.” I run my hand through his hair, which doesn’t do much to tame the rogue curls.
He braces himself on one elbow, looking down at me. “How’re you feeling today?”
My face must give away my confusion. He adds, “Nothing hurts? From the accident… Your neck okay?” His fingers skim the side of my throat, and I shiver.
I’m not sure what it says that yesterday’s accident was the least memorable part of the day. I’ve completely forgotten the paramedic’s advice to take inventory of how I was feeling today, that sometimes pain doesn’t hit until the adrenaline wears off. But Miles remembered.
Of course he did.
And it sends a different kind of adrenaline through me, giddy with something softer.
I roll my head gently, stretch my arms, arch my back, and don’t feel a twinge of pain. “Nope. Good as new.”
“Okay.” He traces my collarbone. “Can I take you somewhere today?”
“Trying to steal all my days off?” I grin.
“As many as I can get.”
My bottom lip catches between my teeth. I let it go. “What were you thinking?”
“It’s a surprise.” He rolls onto his back and stretches, then swings his legs over the edge of the bed. “Breakfast first,” he calls over his shoulder before disappearing into the bathroom.
Twenty minutes later, I’m dressed in cotton leggings and a flannel, watching him crack eggs into a bowl. He moves aroundthe kitchen with easy confidence, whisking eggs, heating the pan, and chopping vegetables.
It’s nice that at least one of us knows how to cook. He’s spoiled me by cooking all our meals. When he doesn’t have time, he orders pre-prepared food from his nutritionist for us both.
The coffee pot stops its gurgling, and he grabs two mugs from the cabinet. The one I moved weeks ago is still there, still crooked compared to the others, all lined up in a neat row.
I wonder how crazy it’s driving him, and whether he’s leaving it that way because of me. The thought makes my lips tip up.
He wordlessly makes my coffee just the way I like it and hands it over.
When neither of us looks away, I rise onto my toes and kiss him quickly, but he deepens it, tugging me closer with a hand at the nape of my neck.
Only when the butter sizzles in the pan does he ease back and turn to pour the eggs in.
“Are you gonna tell me what we’re doing now?” I hop up onto the counter beside him.
“Nope.” He tips the pan.
“Oh, c’mon. Are we… going somewhere to eat?”
“Maybe after, but that’s not what I have in mind.”
