“Duffy is seeing someone else,” I say.
Miles’s face brightens, and he looks almost happy. “He is? What about—”
I shrug. “He’s really nice, and kind, but we’re not a good fit.”
He nods but still doesn’t say anything.
He looks like he wants to—but he just doesn’t.
I narrow my eyes, then move toward him, wanting, for once, to be bold—to say what I need to say. “You know, I was thinking about the park. About what you said.”
He shifts his weight.
“You were so inspiring, and I’m guessing it wasn’t easy to tell me the things you told me.”
He makes a face. “Yeah, it’s not my favorite topic.”
“You were hurt. Like I was. But the way you’ve picked up the pieces of your life and moved forward? It made me want to try to do the same.”
He doesn’t move.
“But that was about your job,” I say. “Not your heart.”
He looks right in my eyes.
“I realized that you’re just as scared as I am.” I pause. “You’re too afraid to really put yourself out there because what if you have to feel that pain again? You want to talk about mixed signals? You kiss me, then agree it can’t happen again. You punch a guy for insulting me and tell me you want it to be your job to protect me, but then you say you don’t do relationships and that we need to just be friends.”
I sigh. “And now you say you don’t want me to be with Duffy...” I pause for a beat. “But we both know that’s not the same as saying you want to be with me.”
His face falls. He starts to say something but stops.
I reach up and touch his face, and he turns into my hand for a fraction of a second, then his gaze falls as he inches just a little closer.
“Miles, what do you want?” My voice is low, our faces so close that if I moved an inch, we’d be kissing.
But neither of us moves.
And he doesn’t say a word.
We’re held in place by a current of electricity that’s buzzing and about to snap.
Finally, after a long, tense—and silent—moment, I smile, softly nod, and walk back into the courtyard, leaving him standing in the darkness of my apartment.
Chapter 31
“This is the brilliant idea?”
It’s two days after the farmers’ market disaster, but the saltiness of that event is still bitter in my mind.
I’m standing in the kitchen at The Porch, trying to wrap my head around the redemption plan Zoey and Lennon have just pitched.
“Self-deprecation is your natural language,” Lennon says. “You can do this.”
“And then we bring in our secret weapon.” Zoey grins.
“Lorraine,” I say dryly, because apparently, my redemption is in her hands.
“Lorraine.” Zoey nods.
