Page 93 of The Girlfriend Zone

Leighton

I should turn down this opportunity to stay at Miles’s house when he’s on the road, but I can’t find a single compelling reason to. Especially since we won’t be there at the same time—no temptations, no complications. We’ll be ships passing in the night. Exactly what I need and what he needs too.

“You get a break from your roommates and make some extra money watching the dogs,” my father says, resting a hand on my shoulder here in the corridor by the locker room. “And Miles gets the help he needs, plus someone to take excellent pictures for his mom. In fact, he’s willing to pay a bonus for photos.”

Funny thing—the bonus happens to cover exactly half the rent my dad’s been trying to get me to agree to if we split a place for a month. He’s too clever for his own good.

I can’t poke holes in his logic, no matter how hard I try. But does Miles really want this? I’m weighing how to pullhim aside and ask if he’s truly okay with me staying there when Dad cuts through my overthinking with a simple, “You’d be helping so much.”

It’s said earnestly, with a hint of pleading in his voice I’ve never heard before. So I say yes.

Two days later, I’m bouncing in my seat as the bus trundles along Marina Green, the bay sparkling under the bright October sun. My pink duffel bag rests beside me along with my trusty camera bag. A buzz zips through me. The idea of wrangling four small, wild dogs has me grinning—far more fun than managing the relationship antics of Indigo and Ezra.

When the bus groans to a stop three blocks from Miles’s place in the Marina, I leap up, grabbing my bags like I’m stepping off a bus in some old Hollywood movie, ready to take on the world. I hit the sidewalk and collide—literally—with a wall of man.

A familiar wall of man.

Broad chest, unruly dark hair, and a tattooed forearm topped off with that vegan leather bracelet I didn’t let him trade in more than a year ago at the lockbox. The best part, though? Miles is standing in front of me wearing a black T-shirt and jeans. Not only do I get to stare at his ropey arms, but I also get to admire the denim. No one in the world looks as good in jeans as Miles Falcon. They hug his thighs, snuggle against his firm ass, and love his legs like they were tailor-made for him. Which, knowing how hockey does unholy things to men’s asses, they probably were.

Before I can say anything, he grabs my bags. “Let meget those,” he says, already slinging the duffel over his shoulder.

I don’t even bother protesting. “I told you I’d be here at eleven,” I say, tilting my head at him. “How’d you know exactly when the bus would arrive?”

He shoots me a crooked grin. “I checked the schedule and waited. I wanted to carry your things for you.”

My chest flutters. It’s such a small gesture, but it feels so...him. Thoughtful. Quietly intentional. Like showing up when I needed to move a few weeks ago, or finding me after work to offer a ride home.

I try not to overthink it, but there’s a dangerous warmth spreading through me. “Well, I get it. As a dog-sitter for four wild Chihuahuas, I’m a rare breed.”

“You must be protected at all costs,” he says, flashing me a playful smile as we start walking toward his house.

The warm fall air carries the faint scent of saltwater as I glance toward the sparkling bay, glimmering by the Golden Gate Bridge. “God, I’m not going to mind this view for the next week or so,” I say, taking in the shimmering water.

“The balcony on the second floor is perfect for a cup of tea in the morning,” he says. “You’ll love it.”

“Oh! Great idea. I need to pick up some green tea—I didn’t bring any.”

“You don’t need to,” he says, his grin widening. “I already stocked up on your favorite.”

I blink at him, caught off guard. “How did you know my favorite tea?”

“I asked Birdie what you always get.”

The pride in his voice is obvious, and honestly, he deserves it. My heart does a little flip as I look at him. “That’s...really thoughtful. Thank you.”

“Of course,” he says, like it’s no big deal. But it feels like a big deal. A small part of me wonders if this is just athank youfor taking care of his mom’s dogs. Another part knows better when he says, “I want you to have everything you want.”

My heart stutters. It feels like this isn’t just for me as the dog-sitter. It feels like it’s for me asme.I clear my throat. “Thank you, Miles.”

His eyes swing toward me as we walk, a spark flickering in them. “And since you’re such a rare breed…there’s pasta in the fridge—sun-dried tomatoes, artichokes, all the good stuff. I made it for you this morning. So it should be pretty fresh. Just heat it up when you’re hungry.”

“You made pasta?” I stop in my tracks, turning to face him, because it’s more than just pasta—it’s the meal that never happened.

“You never got to try it over a year ago,” he says, holding my gaze for a long beat. Heat thrums through me. “Trust me, I’m a phenomenal chef.”

The warmth in my chest turns into a full-on blaze. “I can’t wait.”

A minute later, we’re walking through his front door, and my mind is spinning. The tea, the pasta, the way he showed up at the bus stop—it’s like he’s orchestrated this little world where everything is easy for me while I stay at his home to help him.

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