Page 138 of The Girlfriend Zone

But his mom and Harvey are traveling to their hometown of Seattle soon to see both Patti LuPone and old friends, so there may be more dog-sitting in my future.

For now, there are nights with him in between an away game here or there.

One night he whips up homemade pizza with artichokes and olives, along with a perfect kale salad drizzled in a delicious olive oil. Another night he crafts a buttery mushroom risotto and asparagus that makes my tastebuds weep in happiness, serving it alongside a salad of springgreens dusted with an olive oil I deem mouth-watering. Then it’s arugula and hearts of palm, and after one bite at the counter, I declare the olive oil exquisite.

Miles smirks like he has a secret.

“What’s that for?” I ask.

“You.”

“I figured as much. But why?”

“You, Shutterbug, have fancy taste in olive oil.”

“That so?” I ask, unsure what he’s getting at.

“I’ve been secretly testing out various olive oils for you the last several nights.”

My jaw drops. “You’re tricking me,” I say, but I’m hardly mad.

“Maybe. But now I know your favorite—the most expensive one. That way, I can always make what you like best,” he says, and that makes my heart flip. “And make you happy.”

“It’s working,” I say, feeling all kinds of fizzy.

“Good. I’ll keep making your favorite things,” he says, then pours me some more Riesling, with a nod to the pretty white wine. “And keep them here for you too.”

He lifts his tumbler of amber liquid and we toast to myexquisite taste in olive oil and men. I clink my Riesling to his vile scotch. But it doesn’t taste so vile when I kiss it off his lips.

In fact, the kiss is as exquisite as the sex is hot when he takes me upstairs and bends me over the bed.

I think I like this little arrangement a lot. I like, too, the text message that Melissa sends me that evening.

Melissa: I think I’m ready!!!

I write back immediately telling her how happy I am to hear that, and that we’ll find a time soon.

Everything feels like it’s falling into place.

“Do Ifinallyget details now? You’ve been holding out on me,” Maeve says with an over-the-top pout as we step out of Effing Stuff, the cutest little tchotchke shop on Fillmore Street the next day. The shop smells like lavender and lemon, and its shelves are crammed with quirky treasures, fun mugs, and playful decor—including Maeve’s love lessons mirrors. They’re flying off the shelves; we just dropped off several new boxes. I’m seriously proud of her, and I’ve told her as such many times.

“Have I been holding out?” I tease, but I know I have since the memory of last night rushes hot and bright through me on this Tuesday morning, along with all the things we’ve done the last two weeks—movie nights at home, reading together on the couch—him with his thought-provoking sci-fi allegories or books on human behavior, me with photography tomes. Then, our secret dates at Birdie’s coffee shop. Maybe someday soon I’ll join him with his geocaching club, but not yet.

Maeve stops and stomps her foot. “Yes!” She keeps walking. “You made me do allthiswork stuff first. So, now it’s time. Dish.”

Gladly. My secret nights and days are too good to keep from a friend. “It’s been two weeks, and we’ve pulled it off—this secretly-living-together thing,” I tell Maeve, and I can’t strip the giddiness from my tone. Nor do I want to.

“Impressive,” she says, her voice warm with approval. “I tripped up so many times in the early days with Asher.”

I nod, remembering the chaos of their accidental Vegas marriage. Brunches, dinners—pretending to be a real couple while navigating their very real, very messy feelings. And yet, somewhere along the way, they became everything to each other. “It’s easier for me, though, since we’re not a public thing like you two were,” I say, a little defensively, but not because she’s attacking me.

“Right. Sure,” she says. “But I’m still impressed you’ve done it.”

It’s a compliment from a friend. I know it is. And yet, I feel a little icky. “It just makes sense right now. It’s…prudent,” I say but my chest tightens at the justification of our secrecy. “My dad’s too busy juggling his job and raising my teenage sister solo to keep tabs on me. He’s either at the rink or having dinner in Mill Valley with Riley. It’s not like he’d even know where I was staying.”

That’s what I have to tell myself. Because what’s the alternative? I’m simply not ready to tell my father about my feelings for one of his star players. I’m still sorting them out. And he doesn’t need to be a part of The Great Sorting.

“That’s good,” Maeve says, but her brow furrows. “We had the opposite problem—everyone expected us to live together.”

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