Total pages in book: 141
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 136559 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 683(@200wpm)___ 546(@250wpm)___ 455(@300wpm)
I look at the white duvet cover, crisp and unassuming, and then at the carefully written clues in my notes app. The plan was to surprise him with a lingerie treasure hunt, then pose for him, taking pictures he could keep.
But now all I can think about is how much space I’m taking up in his home, how presumptuous this all feels—the lingerie, the clues, this version of playful intimacy I’ve dreamed up in my head. The confidence I saw in Sabrina has melted away, leaving me feeling like I’m…overstaying my welcome. Yes, I know Miles wants me. But I don’t know if he wants all of me, or all of this. My cheeks burn, and I reach to put the camera and clues away before he gets home.
The dogs erupt into a tornado of barking. Cindy and Boppity spin around and skid out of the bedroom, racing like a herd of Chihuahua-phants down the stairs.
Which means…Miles is home.
Shit.
I don’t have time to hide the evidence. Especially not when the sound of him padding up the stairs, with a canine entourage reaches me. He turns into the bedroom right as I freeze, caught red-handed taking the camera off the tripod.
He’s wearing jeans, a navy blue Henley, and his glasses. A smile spreads across his lips as he takes in the scene. There’s curiosity in his dark eyes, but it’s good—like he’s delighted.
“What’s going on?” he asks, unable to mask the grin as his gaze lands on the camera I’m still fiddling with.
My throat works like I’m swallowing a stone. I feel completely caught, but there’s nothing in his expression that says I’m taking up too much space. Instead, he follows it up with a playful, “Is this for me?”
He sounds so damn hopeful that it wrenches something free in my chest—a sob I didn’t even know I’d been holding in. Or maybe I did. Maybe I shoved it down after class and now it’s breaking loose.
“I was going to do this whole lingerie treasure hunt for you,” I blurt, the words tumbling out in a hot mess. “I had clues and everything. But then, in class, I couldn’t hear the teacher, and I felt so stupid.”
I don’t know if any of what I said makes sense, but in seconds he’s crossing the room, closing the distance between us, cupping my cheeks, the dogs at his feet. “You’re not stupid. Tell me what happened. I’m here for you.”
And just like that, I bury my face in his shirt and do something I haven’t done in years. I cry. Big, sniffling, ugly, snotty tears.
“She plays the music so loud, and I hate it,” I hiccup. “I hate a lot of music. I hate it because I can’t hear people. And I don’t want to miss something someone says. But I don’t know how to tell her it’s too loud because I don’t want any attention. I don’t want any special treatment. I don’t want to be difficult, and I definitely don’t want people to think about me differently. I don’t want them to treat me differently. My mother treats me differently, and I hate it. I just hate it.” My voice breaks, and I bury my nose deeper into his shirt, like an animal burrowing into a den.
“How does she treat you differently?” His question is gentle, full of concern.
“She talks really loud. Like, in an exaggerated way. And she thinks she’s being considerate. But she’s not. It’s just rude, but it’s so hard to explain that to her, and when I try, she just says, ‘I thought I was being helpful.’ And what if I ask the teacher to turn down the music and she starts talking to me like that?” I flinch at the possibility, raw and visceral. “I don’t want anyone to look at me differently,” I whisper. My voice cracks as I push out the words I’ve been too afraid to say. “And what if…what if one day I can’t hear the music well at all?” The thought feels like a chasm opening beneath me, one I’m not ready to face even though his expression is so open, and he’s willing to hear me. Still, I walk it back as resolutely as I can manage with, “I should just enjoy it now.”
Miles tugs me closer, rubs my back, sighs softly. “Sweetheart. Are you enjoying the loud music though?” His voice is gentle as he lets go of the embrace to guide me to the bed. He sits down next to me, taking my hand in his, meeting my gaze as the pups jump onto the duvet one by one, settling around us like little bed sentries. “Do you like going to pole class?”
I blink at him, startled. I hadn’t expected that question. Taking a big, necessary breath, I let it fill my chest as I think about his words. “I like a lot of it,” I admit. “I like being with my friends, learning new moves, feeling strong. But the dancing? I don’t love it. And that’s okay. I don’t have to love every part of it.” I exhale slowly. “I just wish I didn’t have to do every part of it with my eyes.” I pause, feeling horribly vulnerable. “Do you know what I mean?”