“It’s okay,” Miles says softly. “Sit for a minute. Please?”
I stare at him, everything in my body telling me to run but there’s something in his eyes that makes me sit anyway. He crawls over to sit beside me. His pants are back on, but I don’t know when that happened.
“I can’t believe I’m acting like this in a stranger’s bed,” I mutter.
“Um, it’s okay,” he says simply. “I cry in my bed all the time.”
“Fuck,” I growl quietly, running a hand down my face. I take a deep breath, then turn to face him. “I’m just tired. It’s been a long day. And I’m not crying. For the record.”
“Right.” He smiles, his tone playful in a way that would piss me off if it were anyone else. But why not him? He’s no one. I don’t know him. So why doesn’t that tone piss me off? “For the record,” he adds. It’s quiet for a few moments, then he asks, “Do you want to talk about it?”
“Definitely not.” I shake my head.
“Okay, well…” He gets to his feet and digs through the nightstand drawer, pulling out a small pad and pen. That says a lot about him. Keeping a pad and pen to write on. Why not use your phone like everyone else? “Here.” He offers me a slip of paper. “If you ever feel like talking about it, just call me. Any time.”
“Thanks.” I take the paper, fold it neatly, and put it in my jeans pocket, then stand to button them and find my shirt so I can get the hell out of here.
“You could stay if you wanted,” he says, not at all sounding embarrassed or like it’ll mean anything. More concerned, maybe. “I have a spare bedroom you could use.”
“Thanks, but I’m coming off a 24-hour shift and it’s best I go home and sleep for the next day. I wouldn’t want to mess with your… uh, routine or anything.”
He nods, but I can sense he wants to say something else. He doesn’t, though, and I appreciate that in a way I can’t express. Not right now. Maybe not ever. It’s more like a feeling, something that settles right in my chest.
I clear my throat. “Thanks. For… tonight.”
“Do you feel better?”
“No,” I say with a humorless laugh. “But I will when I wake up.”
I always do.
Miles follows me to the front door, helping me get my coat and smiling as I step over the threshold. It looks a little forced though, that concern still clear in his eyes.
“Get home safe,” he says.
Nodding, I hurry down his stairs and out into the cold. I walk a few blocks, needing the cold air to think. I pull my phone out to check the time and remember that AJ called me earlier. It’s too late to call him back and I don’t have a text from him, but I send one anyway.
Me:
You up?
I stare at the text, waiting for a response as I keep walking. I never get one. He’s either sleeping, out on a call, or finally sick of my shit. I pocket my phone and keep walking. When I’m thoroughly lost, I call a rideshare to pick me up and take me home.
Chapter 3
Miles
My alarm goes off, and I swipe the bar on my phone screen to shut it off before throwing the blankets back and getting out of bed. Light streams in through the curtains, and I tug them open to let even more light in.
There’s an ache as I walk to the bathroom to shower, and I smile to myself as I recall the night. It wasn’t my first hookup, but it has been a while since I brought someone home. It was good, even if it was quick and a little awkward at the end. Though, it’s not that I expected him to stay the night. I know how hookups go, but the panicking afterward had me worried. I keep wondering if he made it home okay.
The chemistry was there, and he did everything just right. Not to mention he’s hot as hell. Ten out of ten would do it again.I’m just pretty sure that’s not an option. He was clear about his intentions.
Hookups have never been my thing, and I’m still not sure they are, but it’s better than using my hand all the time. I’ve dated over the years and had one long-term relationship that ended very badly—though in comparison to the relationship, the break-up was a breeze. I’m trying to get out there more, live my life and be a normal twenty-nine-year-old guy—problem is, I can be awkward and shy, and not everyone likes that. But it’s how I ended up at the bar, because, like I said, alcohol makes me brave, and if I want to put myself out there, I need to try. Last night was me trying. I’d say it went pretty well for the first attempt.
I run through my morning routine to get ready for work. Brush my teeth. Shower. Shave. Style my hair—the hopeless mop that it is. Get dressed. I grab my coat and my messenger bag and head downstairs to have breakfast with Audrey and Noah.
“Uncle Miles!” Noah shouts, leaping into my arms as I step into the living room. He’s still dressed in his favorite fire truck pajamas—the set that is almost see-through from the number of times it’s been washed.
