Page 77 of XOXO

I’m just adding my ganache when I hear it, above the din and bustle.

Miles’ voice.

“Shhh,” he murmurs, his voice low and rumbling — and I swear to god, he might as well be a doctor nurturing a patient. He’s… calm. And soothing. When did Miles, of all people, become soothing? “It’s okay, Suruthi. It’s just a cut.”

Suruthi issues a half giggle, half sob. As I mix my batter, the crowd in my periphery disperses. The cameras back up; Suruthi wraps a bandage around her hand with the help of a medic, Miles at her side. When the show airs, this will probably turn into one of those clickbaity, “Stay tuned after the break for a medical emergency!” clips.

As I add the finishing touches to my bake, I try my hardest not to think about why my hands are shaking. Or why I can’t stop replaying Miles’ voice: “It’s okay, Suruthi.”

These feelings don’t improve as the day progresses. If anything, they worsen.

Because now that I’ve noticed Miles’ nurturing side, it’s all I can think about. It’s all I see. I notice things I’ve never seen before — things I wish I could unsee. He visits each contestant’s station with concern in his eyes and care in his voice, regardless of if the cameras are rolling on him. He asks such sweet and personal questions (“How’s the family? I bet they miss you!”) that by the time he reaches me, I’m a mess.

“Willa,” he says curtly, those piercing eyes staring at me again.

“Miles,” I grit back. “Lovely to see you here.”

Something shifts in his features. “Not sure what you mean,” he drawls, raising his near-white eyebrows — and ohh. Oh, shit. Through all my tortured deliberation, I’d never stopped to consider that we’re probably not supposed to know each other…

“Anyway.” He clears his throat and jerks his chin towards my workstation. “What have we got going?”

“A chocolate mousse cake,” I whisper, blood rushing to my cheeks. The same thing you requested when you walked in on my fiancé—

“Oh.” A flash of recognition slides across his face. “I’ve heard that’s um… legendary.” His voice is strained. “I’d offer my help, but you don’t need it.”

I bark out a laugh — if you’re lazy, just say it! — but there’s nothing humorous in his answering expression.

“I’m serious,” he says, his eyes boring through me. “You’re—” His mouth snaps shut, his eyes darting around. The camera over my shoulder creaks in my ear. I’d almost forgotten it was here, too. “You’re very good,” he repeats, then signals at the operator that he’d like to move to Suruthi’s station.

As the camera pans away, though, he slinks behind me, quiet as a ghost, and in an almost imperceptible voice whispers: “You’re so talented, Willa.”

When I’m confident he’s focused on Suruthi’s station, I allow myself to lose my mind.

Shit.

My blood freezes in my veins. My heart hammers in my throat.

Why do I feel… Naked? Stripped down. Bare in front of him, like he can see through my soul. It’s the same feeling I had the first time he looked at me in culinary school. And the second.

By the time he bustled into the shop last Valentine’s Day, I guess I was used to it. Maybe the time away from him is what set me off?

I don’t know how I’m blushing so furiously when it feels like all the blood drained from my body. All I know is that I still need to finish this bake, no matter what. I turn back to my prep table, but I can’t stop hearing his voice in the background, deep and rumbling, just like the day we met in culinary school.

And then an even worse thought occurs, one I’ve probably been repressing forever: do I have a crush on him?

No… No, there’s no way there’s no way I…

Shit.

SHIT.

I take a deep breath through my nose, wondering what the hell came over me. Wondering why this is happening so fast. But doesn’t it always happen fast like this? says an annoying voice in my head, one that sounds a lot like my grandma, who’s been dead a few years. And dammit, Ghost Grandma is right. Even in high school, it took someone else pointing out I had a crush on Dylan for me to accept it, too.

By the end of the day, I’m too freaked out to do anything but get on the bus and go home. Danielle raises an eyebrow as I slide into the seat next to her. I try with an explanation, but the words don’t come out. My stomach keeps fluttering.

I can’t stop thinking about how long ago I should’ve figured this out, too.

Valentine’s Day, Two Years Ago

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