“Thanks. It’s the dr—” I start, but Trey pushes past me.
“You’re looking sharp,” Trey grips Miles’s shoulders and inspects his suit. “Is this new? No more brown polyester?”
I glance at Miles, brows raised, and he smirks.
Trey announces they’re grabbing drinks and they both disappear into the crowd. As soon as they’re out of earshot, Rylee turns to me, eyes narrowed with delighted suspicion. “Sooo, you’re his date. Again.”
“He needed a favor.”
“Like the last time you swooped in to save him?”
“Something like that.”
She crosses her arms, amused. “You know, since I’ve known you, you’ve gone on more fake dates with Miles than real ones with literally anyone else.”
My lips press into a thin line. I don’t have an explanation either. Perhaps I slipped, hit my head, and fell into an alternate universe, and this is just… my life now. “It’s easy with Miles,” I say. “Uncomplicated. And anyway, we’re just?—”
“Friends?” she cuts in, smirking.
My shoulders tense.
“When someone says ‘just friends,’” she continues, lowering her voice, “it’s usually code for ‘we have underlying feelings and absolutely no idea what to do with them.’ Trust me. I’ve tried the just-friends thing.”
The room feels a little warmer than it did a second ago. “There is no underlying anything happening between us.”
For months, Rylee denied her attraction to Trey, even shoving him firmly into the friend zone, which somehow turned into friends with benefits. Then she got pregnant. Now? Trey is not only the best partner she could’ve asked for but an incredible dad to their two kids.
She tilts her head toward Trey, who’s still talking to Miles, except now a woman in a glittering red dress has joined them. She leans in close, her hand settling on Miles’s arm. Something sharp sparks inside me. A waiter passes with a tray of champagne flutes, and I intercept him mid-step, taking two without asking.
“Oh, thanks.” Rylee reaches out, and I spin away.
“These are both for me.”
She laughs. “You’re ridiculous.”
The night blurs into small talk, appetizers, and an unexpectedly captivating lecture from Trey about home brewing. Miles checks in on me throughout the evening, always close enough that no one questions whether we’re together—which is the point. Except it doesn’t feel fake.
As midnight approaches, the band shifts into slow and romantic songs. People drift toward the dance floor with their full champagne flutes, eyes flicking to the countdown screens as they begin to glow.
“Should we…” I gesture vaguely toward the crowd.
“Kiss?” he asks.
“It’s tradition,” I say lightly. “It’d be weird if we were the only ones who didn’t.”
He hesitates, eyes searching my face like he’s running an internal risk assessment. “We don’t have to.”
“Do you want to?”
“Yes.”
His answer is immediate, and my heart flutters. The countdown begins.
Ten.
Nine.
Eight.
