Page 94 of Cinnamon Roll Set Up

I know you’re doing it because you care about me and want me to be happy. How can you not see that I am happy? Every day with you, I’m happier than I’ve ever been. Is it horribly cheesy to tell you that you are the glorious sunshine of my life, and I’m content just to bask in your glow?

Yes. Very. But fear of cheesiness hasn’t stopped me from writing the rest of these letters.

What am I going to do with you, Georgia? Should I take youby the arms and tell you that the only woman I ever want to date is you? Should I admit everything I’ve been concealing for so long?

Should I just recklessly kiss you in the bookshop and see what happens?

I can’t tell you how many times I’ve imagined doing just that. However, it’s certainly the most drastic option, with the highest likelihood for a messy outcome. So kissing you senseless is off the table.

To be very, very clear: I desperately want to kiss you senseless.

Georgia, in all your searching for my dream woman, I hope you will consider yourself. Because you are all I want.

I want a love based on true acceptance and friendship.

I want a love that’s unconditional, without hidden strings or requirements.

I want a love where we can laugh together, even when days get hard.

I want a love I can rely on in good times and bad.

I want a love that’s passionate, even though we know passion is a choice.

I want you.

I can’t believe I’m saying this, but I hope you fail at something. I hope you fail in your quest to find me a date to the awards ceremony.

And I go on hoping you’ll realize that you love me just as much as I love you.

I didn’t know I was a hopeless romantic until I met you.

I didn’t know I could love this hard until you.

Yours always,

Miles

Chapter 30

Georgia

I barely sleep. When I wake up—way too early, I might add—I finish painting the finally non-squeaking rotating bookcase on my balcony. Then, when it’s late enough my neighbors won’t get mad at me for using power tools, I finish putting the hinges and doors on the bike bookmobile. I even paint Dogeared’s logo on the wooden box.

I think too much. Try not to think. Go back to agonizing over every little thing. Every word I can remember that Miles said last night. Everything I can think of that he’s said to me in the lasttwoyears. Maybe worse, I try to remember everything I’ve said to him.

Two years is a lot of time to scroll through. Good days. Bad days. Embarrassing sick days. Triumphant business days. Days when I hugged him an obnoxiously long time. Days when I could have been nicer. Days I was justme. And apparently every single one of those days…Miles loved me.

Does not compute.

My phone rings, and my very hopeful lizard brain expects to find Miles’s name on the screen. But it’s my dad.

Sure. Why not? Might as well round out my morning with some criticism.

“Hey, Dad.”

“Georgia.” Weird pause as though I called him. “How are you?”

Not good, Dad. I am not good. But the cause is not something I want to share with him.

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