I know he’s dating—I watch him leave.
But I also watch him come home.
Ugh. I watch him a lot. I’m officially creepy.
“So do you want to ride with me?” Miles asks.
“Actually, sure,” I say, aware that it might be strange to show up to a date with a man who is not my date. “I’m still not used to driving in the city.”
We fall into step beside each other and walk toward the gate. For a flicker of a moment, I imagine what it would be like if Miles and I weren’t meeting other people at this class. If we were going out together, just the two of us.
“This is a sushi class,” Miles says as he opens the door for me. “I figured you haven’t had sushi before?”
He holds eye contact for a three-count before that lazy grin shows up on his face. Before we left the park earlier, Miles made it clear he wanted to plan this date, but I had no idea he would plan it based on something I want to do.
“No, I haven’t,” I say. “Thank you.”
He closes the door and runs around to the other side of the SUV, and when he gets in, the masculine smell of the car intensifies, sending a wave of desire straight through me.
Desire? What is that?
He starts the car and connects his phone to the speakers. After a few taps, the familiar riff of Journey’s “Separate Ways” kicks off. He turns to me, holds up a rock-out symbol with both hands, and bites his bottom lip as he nods comically to the beat.
“You lunatic.” I laugh. “Butgreatsong choice.”
He tells me about one of his pickleball partners—a woman named Sheila who, from the sound of it, would be a perfect match for Freddy the Pervert—and we laugh and commiserate about the ridiculousness of middle-aged dating.
It’s easy to talk to Miles. I should’ve crossed offFind a friendthe second I met him.
Well, maybe not theexactsecond, but not long after. I suppose I wasn’t expecting a good-looking man to become my actual friend.
Miles starts to slow down on Lincoln Avenue, another area of the city that is reminiscent of a small town. On either side of the street, there are shops and restaurants, some chains, some local stores—hidden charm among the mirrored sleekness of the Chicago skyline.
“There’s the restaurant,” Miles says, leaning down to look through the windshield, pointing at a space with a black awning.
“Looks like Greg and Daphne are already there,” I say as we pass by in search of a parking spot.
Eventually, Miles finds one at the opposite end of the street. We park and get out, then meet on the sidewalk in front of the SUV.
“It’s weird we’re showing up together for dates with other people,” I say.
“Do you want me to wait so we can pretend you didn’t ride with me?”
I laugh, but when I look at him, I’m pretty sure my expression suggests that this might be a good idea.
“Okay, I’ll run across the street. It’ll look like I came from a completely different place.”
“This is so stupid.” I laugh. “But okay.”
He grins, happy to keep up this charade, even though explaining to our dates that we’re neighbors would really not be that big of a deal.
“I just don’t want them to feel awkward,” I say.
He holds my gaze for a long moment. “You like this guy.”
I press my lips together. “He’s nice. And he’s normal. Which is a huge improvement.”
He smirks then. “Got it.” He points to the other side of the street and then, in mock-spy fashion, puts fingers on his watch. “Synchronizing. I’m assuming the position. On my mark.”
