Page 96 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

“Dude, I saw it the night you pretended he was sick, and Harper and I brought the littles to Dogeared. It was all over his face.”

“What was?” I read over thirty of Miles’s love letters to me, and I’m still fishing for confirmation of what’s in them. I’m a mess.

Sam nudges me harder. “He couldn’t take his eyes off you. He watched you like you were a Christmas angel fluttering around in his store. The usual lovesick stuff.”

“You never told me that.”

He flashes this small, sympathetic smile. “You were so oblivious. I figured knowing wouldn’t help anything.”

I flop back down. “I know now.”

“You’re dating, right? I thought that loving you would be a thing you would encourage.”

“Not like this. Not where he’s loved me for two years and I had no idea. Not where he thinks I’m—” All the ways he finished that sentence in his letters flood my brain.

Amazing.

Glorious.

Hilarious.

Perfect.

So many more.

“Not where he cares about me this much,” I finish weakly.

“So, you just wanted a fling.”

“No!” I sit up so I can glare at Sam properly. He’s goading me, but I fall for it like I always do. “I don’t want a fling or anything casual. But it’s just…”

I don’t know how to explain. Sorting out my feelings is likestaring at a mountain and having to move it piece by piece. Where to start?

“A little too real right now?” he offers.

I can’t seem to swallow properly. All I can do is nod and clutch at one of the throw pillows on the couch.

“Do you love him? Because a lot of what I have to say depends on your answer to that.”

I flop backwards across the couch, pressing the throw pillow over my face. It hurts to breathe.

“Is that ‘I don’t know’ or ‘I don’t want to say?’”

I move the pillow just enough to speak. “I don’t want to say.”

Saying the words will make it all too real. Can’t he see I’m already freaking out justthinkingthe words?

He sighs. “Maybe I should call Harper.”

“She already gave me her pep talk. I know what she’ll tell me.”

“Which is?”

I put the pillow back over my face. “I don’t want to say.”

He takes the pillow away and tosses it on the floor. “Tell me what you’re afraid of.”

Against my will, my gaze finds his. We’re teenagers again, and Mom and Dad are telling us they’re divorcing. That actually, they stopped loving each other a long time ago. That, you know what? Maybe they neverreallyloved each other at all. That the last six months of our lives together were a lie. At minimum.

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