He grasps my face, looking directly into my eyes.
“No, Miles. You’re funny all the time.”
“I—”
“You are,” he says firmly. “Maybe you’re joking when you say you’re brave and funny and whatever else when you’re drunk, but I like you when you’re sober too. I hope you know that.”
I smile, then lean in to kiss him. How can I not?
“I didn’t get the question right,” he says with a smile.
“Yeah, but you deserved a kiss, anyway.”
He hugs me tighter. In his arms, it’s warm and safe. After a moment, I slide off him and get comfortable at his side. That’s how we fall asleep.
Chapter 22
JJ
My phone rings, waking me up from a deep sleep. I’m confused when I hear someone groan and feel them roll over beside me. A foot grazes my shin. There’s definitely someone in bed with me. I don’t take people home, so why is there someone in my bed? When I open my eyes, it all makes sense.
I’m not home.
I blink a few times, then glance to my left.
Miles.
Panic swirls in my chest as the ring tone keeps going—I can’t believe I stayed the night. The entire night.
I get out of bed and find my pants. By the time I get my phone from the pocket, the call is done, but it starts right back up again. If Nash is calling me twice, it must be important.
“Yeah?” I say, leaving the bedroom so I don’t wake up Miles.
“You still sleeping?”
“Obviously not anymore.”
“We need to meet for lunch. It’s important.”
“Nash—”
“It’s important, JJ. Just meet me. Fuck.”
“Okay,” I hiss. “When? Where?”
“Hour. At Betty’s.”
“Fine.” I end the call, run my hand through my hair and figure out what the hell I’m going to do.
Get out of here. That’s what. If Nash needs me to meet him, I have to meet him.
I use the bathroom before quietly heading back into the bedroom to pick up my clothes that’re in a pile just inside the door. I carry them back to the bathroom to get dressed without bothering Miles. His bathroom is small, what you’d expect for an apartment bathroom, but it’s neat and tidy, even though he has a million things all over the counter space. Face creams and hair butter—what the fuck is hair butter? There are brushes and combs. Floss, toothpaste, mouthwash. He takes care of himself, that much is clear.
I pull the door open, and he’s standing right there, leaning against the wall. The look on his face isn’t quite happy.
“Heading out?” he asks, his tone flat.
“Uh, yeah,” I say.
