Page 47 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

“I feel like I should vacuum.” He inhales slowly. Probably to prove that his apartment is safe from pet dander. It’s not like he’s trying to smellme. “I’ll go change.”

Good. Great. He returns to his bedroom, and even though I’m tempted to follow him and supervise his selection, it’s for the best if I stay out here. Things are weird between us today. I’m sure he can handle picking out a sweater for a date.

A date I set up. Because I’m just that good of a friend.

I slump onto his desk chair. He’s got a simple writing desk with a wide drawer in the base and storage cubbies on the top. I run my fingers over the worn desktop as though I really can absorb his creative inspiration by touch. It’s littered with sticky notes and pencils, with a small stack of writing craft books on one of the upper shelves.

I flip through the plain spiral notebook in the center of the desk. His neat handwriting fills the pages, becoming cramped and frantic in places as though he couldn’t keep up with his own thoughts. I love how he can bring whole galaxies to life in his mind. His creativity just blows me away.

Something that looks like my name catches my eye, and I flip back to try to find it. Why would my name be in his idea notebook? Maybe I’m seeing things, but it looked exactly like?—

“No spoilers.”

I jolt and close the notebook. I stand to prove I’m not snooping, even though I totally was.

Miles isn’t wearing the maroon sweater. It’s possibly worse. He’s got on jeans and a thin navy-blue cardigan buttoned over a white dress shirt. Both are rolled nearly to his elbows, exposing the white cuffs and—this is the part that’s making my stomach squirm—his forearms.

Why is that so attractive? Romance novels always mention forearms like they’re some universal aphrodisiac. Hands are obvious, and shoulders or biceps can be nice, but forearms? It sounds so ridiculous…until you’re presented with two prime specimens.

I probably should not be objectifying my friend so shamelessly.

He endures my silent scrutiny, but then he decides to murder me. He slips his hands into his front jeans pockets. He’s so cute it hurts. His shy professor look is a hundred tiny, adorable daggers piercing my heart.

My eyes skate up to his. If I open my mouth, I’ll probably keep spouting nonsense about him, so I stay quiet and just enjoy looking.

“I decided to save the maroon one for a special occasion.”

“You look great,” I croak. I legitimately croak. Because now I want to know what would qualify as a special occasion between him and Josie. Second date? Third? Sock removal time? When he decides to tell her he loves her?

My stomach pitches. I think I need to sit down.

“Hey.” He moves a step closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

He peers into my eyes for evidence of whatever ails me. That’s no good.I’mnot even sure what he’ll find in there. I can’t have him go digging around.

I paste on the biggest, brightest smile. “Yeah. I’m just so excited for you and Josie. I’m ready to be crowned Best Wingwoman of All Time. I think she’s going to be the one.”

He presses his lips together. “I thought you didn’t believe in ‘the one.’”

“For you? I definitely do.”

This sweet, soft look shines in his eyes. “And for you?”

“Outlook is less clear.” A pre-date pre-game is not the time to discuss my bleak romantic hopes. “Now come on.”

I take him by the shoulder and arm and push. He chuckles softly but lets me steer him through his apartment.

“You don’t want to be late, do you?” I say, ignoring the heat of his bare skin where my left hand landed on his forearm. Because of course it did.

He stops in front of the door and gazes down at me. “I want a great many things, Georgia.”

My heart stutters in my chest. Why does everything he says today feel so strangely charged? It’s like our wires are crossed, and we’re having two different conversations. His is innocent and normal, but mine is full of this bizarre, unbearabletension. Obviously, I’m the one being a weirdo in this situation.

Case in point: the way I’m clinging to his arm with both hands.

I let go of him and make shooing motions. “Go. Have a great time with Josie. Stay away from the apple bobbing station.”

I’m so upside down, I could swear he looks at me with longing in those beautiful hazel eyes. In spite of all my declarations that I only want to help him out and find the right woman for him, I’ve got a terrible urge to pull him back into his apartment and tell him I resign as wingwoman.

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