nod rapidly. “You’re a good friend, Jake.”
“That’s debatable,” Miles says as when he reappears from the door behind the bar. He claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “What’s he bothering you with now?”
“Nothing interesting.” Jake shrugs off Miles. “What are you two eating?” He lays a menu in front of me, effectively ending our conversation.
Once we’ve ordered, Jake wanders down the length of the bar to attend to other customers.
“What did he say to you?” Miles watches me protectively.
“Really, it was nothing.”
He captures my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face. “Tell me,” he insists.
With those deep eyes boring into me, there’s no way I can deny him what he asks. “Jake doesn’t want to see you get hurt.” My voice is a little breathless. Am I a sucker for brown irises or what?
“Someone as sweet as you couldn’t hurt a fly.”
My lips twist toward a smile. “Sweet is what you call Alexa or Duke.”
Not caring that we’re in a bar he owns, or that anyone from town can see the sign of affection, Miles leans toward me and nuzzles my neck. Reflexively, I tilt toward his touch. I let out a soft sigh of appreciation when his lips brush against the spot in front of my ear. “That’s all sweetness,” he murmurs. “You’re intoxicating.”
Shivers run down my shoulders, and I reluctantly retreat backward. Slow, I remind myself. Miles smiles unashamedly as if to say, I can’t help myself.
“What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given?” I blurt out to steer our conversation toward less sensually charged topics.
When he answers, it’s smooth and confident, like he’s been asked the question a million times and knows the answer by memory. “‘Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.’”
“You’ve read Self Reliance ?” It’s an essay I read repeatedly over the past nine months. The words are practically tattooed in my brain. In fact, I thought about making several of them permanent on my body, one being the quote Miles just recited.
“Does it surprise you so much I’m a fan of Emerson?” He smiles crookedly.
Can I ever stop blushing around this guy? “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised because it’s a favorite of mine. Why is it meaningful to you?”
He gestures to the bar around us. “My sister recommended I read it when I was building this place. There were times when I doubted I could finish the project. Times when I questioned my vision for the bar. Then I read Emerson a few dozen times and that line resonated with me. I had to trust myself to make the right decisions. Go with my gut, and I’ll go the right way.”
“Do you find it strange that it’s one of my favorite lines from the essay too?”
Miles lifts a hand to cup my cheek, stroking my skin with the pad of his rough thumb. “Not at all. I trust myself that asking you out was the best decision I’ve ever made.”
Oh, hell, I’m blushing again. But he doesn’t seem to mind. No, his big browns are full of tenderness.
T he eye of a rowdy thunderstorm hits New Point Friday night. For most people, this would be a non-event. In the aftermath of my confrontation with Clinton Smith, those days of ignoring the boom and brass of a storm are over. Thunderstorms terrify me.
As I lay in bed, the storm swirling around violently outside, I try to push the fear away, focusing on the past few days.
Since our date Monday night I’ve seen Miles every day, even if just for a few minutes when he stopped by the library to say hello on his way to the bar. Either Etta didn’t tell him about our disastrous therapy encounter or he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t mentioned it – and we had dinner at his bar again last night.
Aside from a couple on the cheek, there haven’t been any other kisses since our first one that night on the beach. As much as I want to continue the physical aspect of our relationship, I’m relieved he’s not
“That’s debatable,” Miles says as when he reappears from the door behind the bar. He claps a hand on Jake’s shoulder. “What’s he bothering you with now?”
“Nothing interesting.” Jake shrugs off Miles. “What are you two eating?” He lays a menu in front of me, effectively ending our conversation.
Once we’ve ordered, Jake wanders down the length of the bar to attend to other customers.
“What did he say to you?” Miles watches me protectively.
“Really, it was nothing.”
He captures my chin in his hand and gently lifts my face. “Tell me,” he insists.
With those deep eyes boring into me, there’s no way I can deny him what he asks. “Jake doesn’t want to see you get hurt.” My voice is a little breathless. Am I a sucker for brown irises or what?
“Someone as sweet as you couldn’t hurt a fly.”
My lips twist toward a smile. “Sweet is what you call Alexa or Duke.”
Not caring that we’re in a bar he owns, or that anyone from town can see the sign of affection, Miles leans toward me and nuzzles my neck. Reflexively, I tilt toward his touch. I let out a soft sigh of appreciation when his lips brush against the spot in front of my ear. “That’s all sweetness,” he murmurs. “You’re intoxicating.”
Shivers run down my shoulders, and I reluctantly retreat backward. Slow, I remind myself. Miles smiles unashamedly as if to say, I can’t help myself.
“What’s the best piece of advice you’ve ever been given?” I blurt out to steer our conversation toward less sensually charged topics.
When he answers, it’s smooth and confident, like he’s been asked the question a million times and knows the answer by memory. “‘Trust thyself: every heart vibrates to that iron string.’”
“You’ve read Self Reliance ?” It’s an essay I read repeatedly over the past nine months. The words are practically tattooed in my brain. In fact, I thought about making several of them permanent on my body, one being the quote Miles just recited.
“Does it surprise you so much I’m a fan of Emerson?” He smiles crookedly.
Can I ever stop blushing around this guy? “No, I didn’t mean it like that. I’m just surprised because it’s a favorite of mine. Why is it meaningful to you?”
He gestures to the bar around us. “My sister recommended I read it when I was building this place. There were times when I doubted I could finish the project. Times when I questioned my vision for the bar. Then I read Emerson a few dozen times and that line resonated with me. I had to trust myself to make the right decisions. Go with my gut, and I’ll go the right way.”
“Do you find it strange that it’s one of my favorite lines from the essay too?”
Miles lifts a hand to cup my cheek, stroking my skin with the pad of his rough thumb. “Not at all. I trust myself that asking you out was the best decision I’ve ever made.”
Oh, hell, I’m blushing again. But he doesn’t seem to mind. No, his big browns are full of tenderness.
T he eye of a rowdy thunderstorm hits New Point Friday night. For most people, this would be a non-event. In the aftermath of my confrontation with Clinton Smith, those days of ignoring the boom and brass of a storm are over. Thunderstorms terrify me.
As I lay in bed, the storm swirling around violently outside, I try to push the fear away, focusing on the past few days.
Since our date Monday night I’ve seen Miles every day, even if just for a few minutes when he stopped by the library to say hello on his way to the bar. Either Etta didn’t tell him about our disastrous therapy encounter or he doesn’t care, because he hasn’t mentioned it – and we had dinner at his bar again last night.
Aside from a couple on the cheek, there haven’t been any other kisses since our first one that night on the beach. As much as I want to continue the physical aspect of our relationship, I’m relieved he’s not
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