First, this is the best date I’ve been on so far, and it has nothing to do with my actual date.
Second, I want to know his story.
No matter how deep he’s buried it.
Chapter 18
I read once that dog people wish that their dogs were human, and cat people wish that they were cats.
Like Shaquille O’Neal and Kevin Hart, they’ll never see eye to eye.
After we eat, we thank the chef, then step outside into the cool spring air.
Miles glances over at me, and I must be radiatingI’m coldvibes, because he takes off his jacket and drapes it around my shoulders. The gesture is so simple, I use all my mental power not to make it more than it is.
His hand lingers on my arm, and the lines of friendship go blurry for a second.
I have to look away.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Of course.” He drops his hand, and we start walking toward his SUV.
“Don’t you feel just a little bit rejected?” I ask. “I mean, they ditched us mid-date.”
“You obviously do.” He laughs softly and sticks his hands in his pockets.
“I don’t have a great track record here,” I say. “If you count pickleball, I’m oh-for-eight. I’m starting to wonder if the problem is me.”
“It’s not,” he says.
I go quiet at his certainty.
“Besides, do you really see yourself withGregand his shelter cats?”
I bark out a laugh.
“You can definitely do better,” he says. “You are way out of that guy’s league.”
The comment seems so easy that Miles obviously has no idea how it lands. I’m sure he’s just being nice—a goodfriend—but for whatever reason, it makes my insides scramble.
“Let’s get ice cream,” he says, nodding to a little ice-cream shop up ahead.
“Yeah, okay,” I say, still reminding myself thatwe are just friends.
My phone buzzes, and I pull it out and see a text message from John. I never got back to him about his pitch, and I’m guessing he wants to know if I’ve thought of anything brilliant that will help him land this big fish of a client. Like I’ve done so many times before. I click the phone off and tuck it away without reading the message.
I look at Miles, and his expression seems to ask a question without asking.
“Oh, yeah, sorry.” I brush it off. “My ex.”
“You guys still talk?”
“Not infrequently enough. He only calls me when he needs something,” I grouse.
“What’s he need this time?”
I explain about John’s job and the “favor” he asked me to do for him, and after a beat of silence, he asks, “Are you going to send him ideas?”
