He shakes his head. “No. Afternoon practice today. I’ve got nothing but time. Lead, uh ... the way, I guess.”
His footsteps follow mine, past the kitchen and into the living room, and he drops into the chair across from the couch, leaving his own coffee and food on the table, limbs a bit more awkward than I’d think a professional athlete’s would be. He sits, back ramrod straight, hands tense against the arms of the chair, and one of his legs bounces up and down.
I don’t think I’ve ever made anyone nervous.
But Miller looks at me, full lips parting with a measured swallow he tries to hide behind a tattooed hand, and I wonder if there’s a first time for everything.
I try to smile gently when I take a sip of coffee before my fingers fiddle with the foil on the edge of the bag.
“It’s a bagel. With cheese and stuff,” he blurts before his features pinch with a wince. “I grabbed it on the way here this morning.”
“Oh. Thank you. Is that why you ... why do you look so—” I gesture to him with the bottom of the coffee cup. “Fresh?”
The corner of his mouth tips up. “I think I’m probably better at being hungover than you.”
“Wait.” I narrow my eyes. “How old are you?”
“Twenty-seven.”
“Oh my god.” I drag my fingers down the bridge of my nose. “You’re a child.” He arches a wry brow. I cringe an apology. “No offence.”
“None taken. Pretty sure I’m a man.” He angles his head when he says it, maybe from the weight attached to that last word before he shrugs. “Last time I checked, anyway.”
I straighten my shoulders, tipping my chin up to hide the colour on my cheeks. “Do you know how old I am?”
“Thirty-two.”
“Does that scare you?”
“No. Should it?”
I sniff. “Probably.”
Miller lifts his fingers off the arm of the chair. “Why?”
“I’m thirty-two, with two master’s degrees that didn’t really get me anything, a mountain of student debt I’ll probably never be able to climb, and aspirations for a doctoral degree I’ll probably never realize.” My shoulders give a half-hearted lift and I glance down at the bagel, slowly peeling back the foil so I don’t have to look at him while I admit all my failures. “And I share the same obsession as most eight-year-old boys, except you know, they grew out of it.”
“Those your words?” He taps a thumb against the chair. “Or are they Scott’s?”
“Whose are whose at this point?” I say through a wet laugh.
“You don’t deserve to feel the way he’s made you feel.” Miller scrubs his face before dropping his elbows to his knees.
“You don’t know me.” I start pulling apart the bagel for something to do with my hands.
He stares, assessing. “I don’t need to, to know that.”
My eyes find his, and embarrassment burns along my brow. Chewing on my bottom lip, my voice cracks when I say, “Contrary to popular belief, I’m not usually this messy.”
“I don’t mind a little mess,” he answers, full lips in a soft smile with the hint of lines sketching around his eyes. A muscle in his cheek ticks, and he palms his jaw, working over his next words. “Last night, you said—”
“A lot of things, I’m sure.” I snort. “None of which are to be believed in the light of day.”
A swallow works down his throat, and he runs a hand along the back of his neck. “That’s too bad. You said if I ever wanted to ... turn my list of things I don’t do into, uh—”
“Things you try again,” I finish softly. I do remember that part of the night. Clearly.
Miller, suspended in the doorway to my bedroom. His hand on the frame, resignation written in the lines of this face that’s supposed to, if Scott and apparently the media are to be believed, belong to this irreverent playboy who doesn’t understand or care about much.
