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)
“You really do like the rain?”
“Fucking love it. Rain is a beautiful thing.”
I picture him in Seattle—no umbrella, a cup of coffee in hand, Nirvana playing in his headphones, impervious to the drops of water the Washington sky flings on him. It fits him so perfectly it makes me smile. “Do you like Nirvana?”
He scoffs. “Do you like shiny things?”
I gasp, mock affronted. “Miles Falcon! How dare you!”
“How dare I figure you out already?” He smirks, moving closer. Lifting a hand, he lightly brushes my flower earrings, then my bracelets, and finally glances down at the anklet he gave me. I shiver from the dusting of his fingertips.
I feel almost…marked by his touch. It’s a heady sensation.
“Yes,” I say, primly.
“Get used to it, friend. I’m very observant,” he says, queuing up rainfall sounds on his phone. The gentle patter fills the room, soft and private.
“Is this bickering new for them?” he asks, nodding toward the door.
“They’ve always been…talky. But yeah, this public therapy phase is new.”
He raises an eyebrow. “And it’s still going on.”
Oh. “I hadn’t realized,” I say, swallowing, my cheeks warming with some embarrassment. “Sorry you have to hear it.”
His smile is soft, full of understanding. “It’s all good. The rain covers it up. Another reason I like rain.”
And I appreciate so much that he didn’t try to make me feel better about missing what they’re saying. I appreciate that he’s not making a thing out of it. “Agreed.” I grab a fitted sheet to toss onto the futon, then wrinkle my nose. “Does my room smell like beard oil? Like tobacco and pepper?”
Miles sniffs the air. “A little, now that you say that. Also, that’s specific.”
“I have a good nose,” I say, offhand.
“I’m impressed.”
“Eagle eyes and a bloodhound nose to make up for what I lack,” I say.
He gives me a soft smile. “I’ll have to make sure I smell extra good around you.”
I lift a playful brow. “News flash: you do.” But so I don’t get caught up in flirting, I quickly add, “Anyway, when I was at Maeve’s place, they sublet to a guy who made small-batch beard oil.”
“Of course they did.”
“Same circles,” I say.
He smirks. “Figured as much.”
Miles shifts to help me pull the sheet tighter on one corner of the futon. As we make the bed, it strikes me—he’s already done so much for me today. I don’t want him to feel obligated to hang around.
“You don’t have to stay,” I say, catching his gaze across the bed.
He shoots me a look, his hands still resting on the edge of the futon. “Have you met me?”
I laugh. “Yes, Mister Determination. Do you always get what you want?”
“When it’s important,” he says, straightening up, his voice soft but firm. “Besides, if memory serves, we’re having pizza. Artichoke hearts, right?”
I laugh harder. “I thought your Lyft services were your housewarming gift.”
“Turns out I’m giving you two housewarming gifts.”
“Fine. But I’m paying.”
“Not a chance. It’s a housewarming gift, Leighton.”
“Then I’m providing the wine,” I say.
“I feel good about that.”
The sound of rain muffles our laughter, and I’m suddenly keenly aware of the ease between us. It’s dangerous. Too tempting. As if we could fall onto my bed, like a couple, enraptured by laughter, then turn to each other and kiss like it’s all we’ve wanted to do all day. Will it always feel like this? With him both so safe and so dangerous at the same time?
I clench my fists once, twice, to try to ignore the desire swirling in me.
As we finish with the futon, Miles grabs his phone and asks me a few more pizza questions. When he finishes ordering the food, his attention seems to snag on something beneath the chair. He crosses the room, rummages around, and pulls it out, holding it up to the light.
Something long. Pink. Silicone.
I slap a hand to my face. “Oh no.”
He dangles the dildo between two fingers, looking amused. “Yours?”
“God, no,” I groan, grabbing an old T-shirt of mine to wrap it up. Marching to the living room, I interrupt Indigo mid-sentence as she says to Ezra, “Is it hard to listen to my feelings?”
Girl, it’s hard for me. “Here. This is either beard oil guy’s or…”
Indigo snatches it from me, her eyes flaring. Like she’s going to lash into Ezra. But then her expression softens. Instead, her gray eyes twinkle, and she whispers reverently, “This one is my favorite.”
“Mine too,” Ezra says.
“I thought it was missing,” she whispers.
“It’s a sign. It’s come home to us,” Ezra agrees.
“This whole night is a sign,” Indigo says, turning to me with an air of absolute sincerity. “You’re a good-luck charm.”
Then they run off to their room, leaving me stunned. I retreat back to mine, shutting the door with more force than necessary. Miles looks up from his phone, grinning. “Rain sounds louder?”