Page 46 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

Forscience. Because that’s what friendsdo.

“Why this one what?” he asks.

I tear my gaze from the way his shirt hugs his shoulders and gesture at the print. “Why that cover? It’s not the first cover I did, and it’s definitelynot my best.”

His gaze drifts to the shelf and back. Holds on me. “It reminds me of us.”

“Us? It’s not us.”

“I think it looks like us.” His voice is soft and low and ever so slightly amused.

Sure, Miles and I were sort of on my mind when I illustrated it, but it’s notus, exactly. Just…our vibe together. The way we kind of matched the character descriptions and the close friendship they had as coworkers.

Oh, shoot. It’sus.

I illustrated us as a couple who fall in love working together. That’s…I’m not sure what to call that. Small step down from creepy, big step up from impartial friend.

“Well. You know. Art is up for interpretation.” I give a weak laugh, and then, because I’ve lost my mind, I run my hand along his sleeve again. Indulge in tracing the softness of the fabric, and the shape of his muscles underneath. I could touch his shirt all day.

“What do you think of this one?” he asks, indicating his outfit.

Clearly, I love it. I can’t stop touching it. But that might lead toJosietouching it.

“You shouldn’t wear it. It’s a little too…” I want to sayflattering,but that makes no sense. Obviously, I want it to flatter him. Why else am I here? It just doesn’t have to flatter him quite this much. “Too plain. I want you to knock Josie’s socks off.”

I wince, considering the context. “I mean, I don’t think you should really take her socks off. Not that socks are the kind of thing that come off on a first date. I don’t know when you typically take a woman’s socks off. Her socks should definitely stay on the whole time.”

Shut up, Georgia.

His mouth quirks. “So, should I or should I not remove her socks at the Harvest Festival?”

I lightly shove his shoulder. “Go change.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Maybe your, uh…dark maroon sweater? That one looks really good on you.”

His mouth tips into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I swallow because my throat is suddenly Sahara dry. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”

“I didn’t know that.”

We’re standing so close, and he’s speaking so low, you’d think we were talking about something even cozier than soft sweaters.

“It’s my favorite of yours. It makes all the green flecks in your eyes brighter. Tiny emeralds in a sea of amber.”

He looks immensely proud of that description. “That’s poetic.”

I’m close enough to see those flecks, and I swear they all grow brighter.

“It’s because I’m in a writer’s apartment.”

“I didn’t know it worked like that.”

“The creativity is in the air here. Like pollen. Or pet dander.”

I really need to stop talking. And looking. Talking and looking are a bad combination.

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