He steps closer, his hand settling at my waist. Electricity hums through me as each fingertip presses into my dress.
Seven.
Six.
Five.
I lift my hands to his chest. His heartbeat is fast—matching mine.
Four.
Three.
Two.
We hover, a breath apart, the room swelling with cheers.
One.
Confetti rains down as his lips meet mine, soft at first. Then the crowd erupts, and something in him shifts. His hand firms at my back, mine curls into his lapel, and the kiss deepens, slow, warm, and very much not pretend.
When we finally pull apart, my brain stops working altogether. I need a drink. Or oxygen. Or a step-by-step guide on how to act normal after kissing someone like that in front of half the city. I spot a server nearby, grab a champagne flute, and take a reckless sip—mostly to keep my hands occupied so they don’t find their way back to Miles.
The drive to my apartment is quiet, but it’s the charged kind of silence that buzzes louder than music.
“Miles,” I say softly.
He glances over. “Yeah?”
“I had fun tonight.”
“So did I.” His hands tighten briefly on the steering wheel before relaxing again.
There are a hundred things I could say—and just as many reasons not to. “This was all part of the practice, right?” I add, forcing the words to sound casual. “We kind of got caught up in the moment.”
“Right. Practice.” That single word lands heavier than the kiss did.
When we reach my apartment, he walks me to the door. I fumble with my keys longer than necessary before the lock finally clicks open. When I turn back, Miles is standing close—just a little too close.
“Goodnight, Nora.”
“Goodnight, Miles.”
I step inside and close the door, resting my forehead against the wood. The apartment is quiet. My heartbeat is not. My fingers drift to my lips; I can still feel him there. Practice. That was the deal. The word we agreed on. So why does my chest feel tight, as if I just sprinted a mile? And why do my fingers still remember exactly where they were an hour ago?
I kick off my shoes and faceplant onto the bed, muffling a very undignified grunt. Miles deserves someone just as put-together and brilliant as he is. I roll onto my back, stare at the ceiling, and press a hand to my face.
“Get it together,” I whisper.
My brain responds by replaying the last four hours in vivid detail. I hate you, brain.
Seventeen
Cupid Is Cancelled
Nora
Ever since New Year’s Eve, I’ve been keeping my distance from Miles. I wouldn’t say I’m avoiding him. Okay. I’m absolutely avoiding him.
