“With a very big head.” I smiled at him, glad he showed up, then spent the rest of the night asking questions, making plans, and laughing. A lot.
This was becoming a habit.
“Part two tomorrow,” he’d said when he was leaving. “I’ll get Mediterranean.” He stopped in the doorway. “Unless you have other plans.”
I grabbed onto the door, not wanting him to leave. “I don’t.”
At the sight of his now-familiar smile, my stomach did a little two-step. He stood there for a beat, then finally turned and walked away.
I won’t admit how long I stood there watching him walk toward his apartment.
Not out loud anyway.
Afterward, I stalked his website because I had no idea, really, what he does or how he does it.
Sure, I’d seen the courtyard, and I knew that if he owned this building he had to be doing pretty well for himself. But I didn’t understand the scope of his success.
He’s the owner of a very prominent firm that boasts a pretty incredible portfolio. High-end clients with noteworthy projects.
After looking through the before and after photos of several projects on his website and hearing him talk about a playground installation he’s doing for the city with all the excitement of a kidmeeting their favorite superhero, I’m more certain than ever that this man is more than a landscape architect. He’s an artist.
I spent the rest of the night sketching, journaling, and dreaming, mostly about The Porch, but about Miles too.
The next night, I’m standing at his door holding a glass pan of baklava and trying to calm the nerves bouncing around in my stomach. Before I can knock, he pulls the door open.
“Hi there,future business owner,” he says knowingly.
I look up and off to the side and do a little curtsy.
“I saw you walk over. Come on in.” He opens the door a little wider, and I walk inside, feeling a little like we’re taking our friendship to a new level.
He invaded my space, but he’s inviting me into his.
Being in here is a glimpse into who Miles is when nobody else is looking. Who is, if I had to guess, a lot like who he is when we’re together.
Still, I’m apprehensive. Guarded. I want things to be honest, and IthinkI’m getting to know this guy... but look what happened last time.
I thought I knew John.
Turns out everyone knew himbutme.
With Miles, my emotions and my logic are struggling to find a balance.
I take a quick look around. The layout of his apartment is similar to mine. The vibe in here is very Nate Berkus. Modern, neutral, masculine. And it smells like Miles, a fragrance that is quickly becoming one of my favorite—and most familiar—scents.
“I made this,” I say, holding out the baklava.
As Miles takes it from me, his fingers brush mine and I force myself to silently chant,He’s just a friendover and over in hopes that the romantic part of me will listen.
“It’s celebratory baklava,” I say, my hands still on my end of the pan.
“What are we celebrating?” he asks.
I take a breath and hold it. “I know tonight is part two of you sharing your infinite wisdom with me, but”—I wince—“I signed the lease this morning.”
He raises his eyebrows and grins.
I make a face that’s equal parts excited and terrified.
