Page 91 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

I sit up straighter, despite his hands on my waist, holding me to him. “Should we put it in the bookshop?”

He makes a sound in the back of his throat. Indistinct but a definite no.

“It doesn’t go here on your coffee table.” I slip out of his grasp and stand, gesturing at the chunky award. The crystal is out of place with the video game controller and stack of library books.

He stretches one hand out to me. “Come back. We’re in the middle of something.”

I grab the hefty award and stalk around his living room, searching for the best spot. “Maybe on your bookshelves?”

I set it on one of the shelves, but it disappears against the colorful books and movie memorabilia. The curse of a see-through prize, I suppose, but there’s got to be a good place for it.

“Georgia. Please.”

Miles sounds so pained, I turn to look at him.

“I need to kiss you,” he says. “Just once. Softly. Before I die saving my crew from an exploding nebula.”

Cruel of him to remember what I said and quote it back to me like that. “If you had any throw pillows, I’d chuck them at you.”

“Exactly why I don’t own any.”

“It was a really good idea though, wasn’t it?”

He nods. “I considered using it, but I didn’t want to have to add you in the acknowledgements.”

I make a face at him and go back to my hunt. “I think some actress keeps her Oscar in her bathroom. Want to do that?”

“Not even a little.”

“Yeah. Sounds kind of unsanitary. How about on your desk?”

I stand in front of it, but there’s not really space for the award anywhere. It’s messier than it was the last time I saw it. Like he’s much too busy exploring the worlds in his creative brain when he’s sitting here to ever clean offhis desk.

“Why do you have so many pencils?” They’re all over the desk and cubbies. One has rolled onto the floor by his chair.

“I’m in the brainstorming phase. I need to be able to write down ideas any time.”

That explains the ones I saw next to a notebook on his kitchen counter.

“Well, this is a mess.”

“You should see my nightstand. Sometimes I have to write a line or two in the middle of the night.”

I’m not going to think about him sitting up in bed scribbling away right now, thanks. I’m trying to focus and failing pretty miserably. He keeps tossing curveballs at me.

“It should go up here on the desk shelf, so it can remind you just how awesome you are when you’re writing.” I gather up the loose pencils from the desk and put the crystal award in its place of honor.

Miles Forrester, Rising Star. It’s even got a shooting star etched deep in the glass. I love it.

I turn to him and wave the handful of pencils.

“Just throw them in a drawer somewhere. Then please come back to the couch.”

Oh boy, will I ever.

I open the drawer beneath his laptop, expecting to find a treasure trove of pencils waiting to be sharpened, but instead I find a sheaf of papers. The top one begins, “Dear Georgia.” They’re letters. I fan them out a little, and the others are addressed similarly, all to me.

“Miles?”

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