Page 78 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

She takes my hand like she’s comforting a small child. “That’s the point, sweetie.”

I can’t control the smile on my face. Don’t want to.

Georgia closes her eyes. “Rule number five: don’t give nicknames on the first date.”

“Rule number six: giveallthe nicknames on the first date, darling pumpkin.”

She opens her eyes again but breaks down into a fit of giggles. “Seriously, this date is over. We can try again some other day. Maybe I’ll be more normal then.”

“I don’t want normal.”

She laughs even harder. “Is the rest of that sentence ‘…I just want you?’ Because that’s kinda iffy as a compliment.”

“‘I just want you’ is a complete sentence all on its own.”

Her cheeks blaze red, but she can’t stop smiling. “I feel like we’re going to need a lot more rules.”

“That’s okay. I like being a rebel.”

That seems to be the funniest joke of all, and it takes her a minute to recover. “Do you want to go to the Abandoned Manor?”

“Why not? Be prepared for rule number seven: don’t scream like a banshee on the first date.”

Chapter 26

Georgia

I just want you.

I can’t get that thought out of my head. A few weeks ago, we were best friends who spent a ton of time together but didn’t think about each other that way. Now, we’re sneaking kisses in Dogeared’s back room and openly flirting with each other. It’s exciting.

Also terrifying. It’s a leap of faith, and part of me wants to take that jump—the other part of me wants to give in to my panic and run away to find safer ground. I’m not even exactly sure what I’m afraid of. I just know it’s right behind me, indistinct and ominous.

So why not combat those vague fears with more tangible ones?

We wander downtown’s streets hand in hand. We’ve finally entered our first fake fall, and it’s cool enough out that I need my sweater—a bold geometric pattern in burnt oranges and yellows. It whispers “fall,” where my more unusual sweater collection tends to scream it.

Speaking of screaming, the community center has reached maximum haunted house vibes. Doors are boarded up, tatteredsheets hang from a second-story window as though someone tried to escape, and the occasional moan echoes from speakers in the eaves.

I want to high-five whoever’s behind the decor.

We get in line, putting us close enough to hear therealshrieks as groups move through the haunted house. My heart’s racing, but this way I can blame it all on my fight-or-flight instinct and not my very big, very unwieldy feelings for Miles.

“Have you been through the haunted house before?” he asks.

“I have, but they change it up each year. There’s the usual stuff, like creepy dolls and alien autopsies, but there’s always something new, too.” I squeeze his hand tighter. “Are you nervous?”

“No. I just haven’t been to one in forever.”

“Not a fan?”

He shrugs as we shuffle forward in line. “I used to go to the ones we had at school when we were little. Really amateur stuff. And I guess I went through a few in college. But not since then.”

“Then prepare yourself to be scared, sweetie.” I freeze, cringing inwardly. Also, probably outwardly.

Miles just grins down at me, his face illuminated in the streetlight behind me. “Never stop breaking rule number five.”

We move forward again and reach the ticket booth. The ticket taker’s in character just like everyone will be inside—he’s a freakishly gray corpse whose dialogue is littered with puns.

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