I freeze as heat floods my cheeks.
He shifts slightly, adjusting himself, and that only makes it worse.Better. Worse?
I sit back on my heels but don’t move away, my fork still clutched in my hand like an idiot. I toss it onto the plate, and it clangs loudly. Even that doesn’t break the tension between us.
We’ve had sex, spent the whole night together, and made an agreement about the next four months. So why doesthisfeel like a first?
Maybe because it is. The first morning after. The first breakfast. The first time we’re just… existing together without urgency or denial.
But I want more of it.
“Sorry,” I say, but move closer.
“Don’t be.” His gaze drops to my mouth, to my eyes, then back down again.
My hand slides up his thigh.
He sucks in a breath.
I lean in?—
“Oh. Oh my,” a voice that isn’t mine or Miles’s exclaims.
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
Tara stands in the kitchen doorway, grocery bags in her arms, eyes wide and mouth hanging open.
My face is on fire.
“Tara.” Miles runs a hand through his hair and looks everywhere except at his cousin.
“I texted to say I was stopping by.” She sets the bags down carefully on the island.
“I didn’t see it.” He clears his throat.
A grin spreads across her face. “Yeah, I can see why.”
“How was your weekend?” Miles tries.
“Oh no, you don’t,” she chides, but there’s no heat behind it.
We both stand from the couch. I don’t miss Miles not-so-subtly tucking himself into the waistband of his gray sweats.
Tara tips her head to the side, one hip cocked and a foot tapping an impatient beat as she waits for us to explain. “So, you two are a thing now?”
Miles shrugs, and we trade small smiles before he turns back to Tara. “Something like that.”
“Kids these days. Why do you all have a fear of commitment?”
“It’s not that.” Miles gives her a look I interpret ascould you butt out.
“I knew it,” Tara mutters to herself, turning to unpack the groceries. She pauses, milk carton halfway to the fridge, and turns to me. “He didn’t pressure you, did he?”
“Oh, God, no!” I practically shout.
“Jesus Christ, Tara,” Miles mutters.
“Don’t ‘Tara’ me.” She pulls out a carton of eggs and points it at him.
