Page 121 of The Girlfriend Zone

“I wanted closure,” he says, his voice heavy as he opens up, but also calm, steady. “I wanted to tell him how I felt. But when I tracked him down, I found out he’d died of a heart attack.”

My heart squeezes—not for his dad, but for this man with me right now. “I’m sorry, Miles.”

He swallows, sighs, then says with some resignation, “Me too.” He pauses, holds my gaze. “And thank you. For asking.”

It’s said like it’s what he needed all along.

“Of course,” I say, then even though it might make him uncomfortable, I ask the next thing. “What would you have told him? If you found him? What’s the closure you wanted?”

If he needs closure, maybe he can get it…with me.

Now.

Here.

He blows out a long breath. “Good question.” His brow furrows, but it doesn’t take long for him to find the answer. “I think I’d have said I wished he had the guts to tell me the truth before he took off. That it was unfair to leave like that. That it pissed me off.” He looks away, then back at me. “But also, I think what I really wanted to say is—he missed out. It was his loss. I wanted him to know he had an amazing, clever daughter in Charlie who turned out to be a passionate advocate for animal rights, a son in Tyler who’s funny as hell and ferocious on the ice, and more disciplined than anyone I know. A wife who is the best mom in the world. And he missed out on all that,” he says, emotion in his voice, but it’s clear the emotion is reserved for his family, not for the family member who left.

“And a strong, thoughtful, caring, smart, incredibly resilient son who’s pretty passionate too,” I add.

Miles’s lips tilt in another smile as he moves in for a kiss. A soft, tender one that ends with a “thank you” whispered against my lips. When he pulls back, he adds, “For the closure.”

“You’re welcome,” I say, then glance down at the food. “Oh! I should have added—who’s an excellent chef too.”

“A hot chef,” he says.

“A hot tattooed chef,” I add, my gaze drifting over the ink on his forearm as we resume eating.

“You like my ink, Leighton?” he asks, like he’s glad I do.

“It’s hot. What’s this one for?” I ask, tracing the arrow tattoo that runs along his arm.

“Focus,” he says. “I got it when I went to college. It was my reminder to stay on track.”

“Well, two degrees and hockey—I’d say it worked.”

“A little,” he deadpans.

My attention shifts to a colorful tattoo on his bicep, a tree with bright fall leaves. “And this?”

“Family tree,” he says with a sweet smile. “For my mom, Birdie, Tyler, and Charlie.”

Not his dad. He doesn’t have to say it; I get it. My life’s the same.

“I love it,” I say, glancing back at the plate in front of me. “And I love your cooking.”

“I told you I’d cook for you,” he says with a small, self-satisfied smile.

I flash back to last night, to the groceries he sent here with that cocky note:For when I cook for you.

“You were so presumptuous,” I say, raising an eyebrow. But inside, I keep wondering—how many more times would he like to cook for me?

“I thought you said I was cocky,” he counters, grinning as he lifts his coffee mug.

“Same thing,” I reply, but my mind circles back to that word again.Here.

“Miles,” I say, swallowing down the nerves. This isn’t easy, but it needs to be said. “What are we doing?”

He sets his mug down, his eyes locking on mine. “I don’t know. But I don’t want to stop.” His voice is full of emotion, mostly hope and longing.

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