I swing my legs. “Museum? Concert?”
He shakes his head.
“Skating again?”
“Nope.” He darts a look at me. “You really don’t like surprises, do you?”
It’s not that I don’tlikesurprises. I just don’t know what to do with them. Outside of my parents, I can’t remember anyone planning one for me. And while there are plenty of happy memories, there are others, too. Like finding out I’d have to wear my too-small shoes a little longer, until my mom could scrounge together enough money for a new pair, or that the dinner menufor the foreseeable future was SpaghettiOs because they were on sale.
Though I’m sure whatever Miles has planned will be a good surprise. “I’m not sure yet,” I tell him.
He gives me one of his half-smiles, then turns back to the pan, flipping the omelet in that way chefs do.
“At least tell me what I should wear.”
His gaze moves down my body, and then back up. “What you’re wearing is good.”
I look down at my leggings and flannel shirt. “These are my pajamas.”
He hitches a shoulder. “I like them.”
Three simple words should not make my whole body hot.
He checks the other side of the omelet, then slides it onto a plate, dividing it before carrying the two plates to the living room.
I follow. “I thought you didn’t like sitting out here to eat.”
On mornings when I only have time for coffee before rushing off to Boone’s, he’s always sitting at the island with a placemat and a triangle-folded napkin set to the right of his plate.
“But you do, don’t you?” He waits for me to get comfy, then hands me my plate. “You’re always eating there, with your knees folded up and your plate balanced on them. You look like a little cricket.”
I snort. “I think you mean a praying mantis.” I rub my hands together the way the insect does, making him chuckle.
“Whatever it is, it’s cute.”
“Why’re you watching me eat, anyway?” I cut into the eggs with my fork.
“Same reason you notice.” He smirks, then pops a bite into his mouth. “I like looking at you.”
I focus on my plate, trying to hide the heat creeping up my neck. “This is good.”
He hums in response. When he finishes eating, and I’m still working on mine, he throws an arm over the back of the couch and angles toward me.
I smile widely at him, and he returns it.
“Quit watching me eat,” I say, but I’m still grinning.
His gaze flicks away, but it drifts back to me.
I finish the last bite and set my plate on the coffee table, but the fork slides off, clattering to the floor between his feet.
“I got it,” we say at the same time.
But I’m already moving, my knees on the couch cushion, one hand braced on his thigh for balance as I lean over him to grab it.
Miles goes completely still.
I close my fingers around the fork. When I pull back, I find him staring at me, his jaw tight, Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallows.
