Page 127 of The Girlfriend Zone

Leighton: I’ll send you some dates.

Then, I set the phone aside as I hop off the bus and head inside, eager to execute my plans for Miles.

But as I’m setting up, everything feels too…girlfriend-y. Maybe it’s because I’m alone in his house, adjusting my tripod, leaving a trail of lingerie for him to discover with geocache clues.

A bustier hanging in the closet next to his ties.

A satin nightie tucked under a pillow in the guest bedroom.

A thong slipped into a bathroom drawer.

It all sounded playful and bold in my head, but now my stomach twists, and I feel…off. Like I’m overstepping. Like I’m trying on a role that doesn’t quite fit. Miles isn’t here—he’s working out with some of the guys on their off day and grabbing a bite afterward. So it’s just me, the dogs, and all my uncertainty.

I wince, glancing around the bedroom. Boppity and Cindy sit at my feet, their cute, inquisitive stares somehow making me feel even more exposed. The queasiness settles deeper, a pit in my stomach that won’t go away. It’s not just that I’m staying a few extra days—it’s that it’s starting to feel like something more. And I don’t know what to do with that.

We’ve been sharing his space, making breakfast, getting ready together—like we’ve done this a thousand times before. We’re playing house, and I don’t know if that’s comforting or terrifying. Maybe both.

I look at the white duvet cover, crisp and unassuming, and then at the carefully written clues in my notes app. The plan was to surprise him with a lingerie treasure hunt, then pose for him, taking pictures he could keep.

But now all I can think about is how much space I’m taking up in his home, how presumptuous this all feels—the lingerie, the clues, this version of playful intimacy I’ve dreamed up in my head. The confidence I saw in Sabrinahas melted away, leaving me feeling like I’m…overstaying my welcome. Yes, I know Miles wants me. But I don’t know if he wants all of me, or all of this. My cheeks burn, and I reach to put the camera and clues away before he gets home.

The dogs erupt into a tornado of barking. Cindy and Boppity spin around and skid out of the bedroom, racing like a herd of Chihuahua-phants down the stairs.

Which means…Miles is home.

Shit.

I don’t have time to hide the evidence. Especially not when the sound of him padding up the stairs, with a canine entourage reaches me. He turns into the bedroom right as I freeze, caught red-handed taking the camera off the tripod.

He’s wearing jeans, a navy blue Henley, and his glasses. A smile spreads across his lips as he takes in the scene. There’s curiosity in his dark eyes, but it’s good—like he’s delighted.

“What’s going on?” he asks, unable to mask the grin as his gaze lands on the camera I’m still fiddling with.

My throat works like I’m swallowing a stone. I feel completely caught, but there’s nothing in his expression that says I’m taking up too much space. Instead, he follows it up with a playful, “Is this for me?”

He sounds so damn hopeful that it wrenches something free in my chest—a sob I didn’t even know I’d been holding in. Or maybe I did. Maybe I shoved it down after class and now it’s breaking loose.

“I was going to do this whole lingerie treasure hunt for you,” I blurt, the words tumbling out in a hot mess. “I had clues and everything. But then, in class, I couldn’t hear the teacher, and I felt so stupid.”

I don’t know if any of what I said makes sense, but in seconds he’s crossing the room, closing the distance between us, cupping my cheeks, the dogs at his feet. “You’re not stupid. Tell me what happened. I’m here for you.”

And just like that, I bury my face in his shirt and do something I haven’t done in years. I cry. Big, sniffling, ugly, snotty tears.

“She plays the music so loud, and I hate it,” I hiccup. “I hate a lot of music. I hate it because I can’t hear people. And I don’t want to miss something someone says. But I don’t know how to tell her it’s too loud because I don’t want any attention. I don’t want any special treatment. I don’t want to be difficult, and I definitely don’t want people to think about me differently. I don’t want them to treat me differently. My mother treats me differently, and I hate it. I just hate it.” My voice breaks, and I bury my nose deeper into his shirt, like an animal burrowing into a den.

“How does she treat you differently?” His question is gentle, full of concern.

“She talks really loud. Like, in an exaggerated way. And she thinks she’s being considerate. But she’s not. It’s just rude, but it’s so hard to explain that to her, and when I try, she just says, ‘I thought I was being helpful.’ And what if I ask the teacher to turn down the music and she starts talking to me like that?” I flinch at the possibility, raw and visceral. “I don’t want anyone to look at me differently,” I whisper. My voice cracks as I push out the words I’ve been too afraid to say. “And what if…what if one day I can’t hear the music well at all?” The thought feels like a chasm opening beneath me, one I’m not ready to face even though his expression is so open, and he’s willing to hear me. Still, I walk it back as resolutely as I can manage with, “I should just enjoy it now.”

Miles tugs me closer, rubs my back, sighs softly. “Sweetheart. Are you enjoying the loud music though?” His voice is gentle as he lets go of the embrace to guide me to the bed. He sits down next to me, taking my hand in his, meeting my gaze as the pups jump onto the duvet one by one, settling around us like little bed sentries. “Do you like going to pole class?”

I blink at him, startled. I hadn’t expected that question. Taking a big, necessary breath, I let it fill my chest as I think about his words. “I like a lot of it,” I admit. “I like being with my friends, learning new moves, feeling strong. But the dancing? I don’t love it. And that’s okay. I don’t have to love every part of it.” I exhale slowly. “I just wish I didn’t have to do every part of it with my eyes.” I pause, feeling horribly vulnerable. “Do you know what I mean?”

“I do.” He runs his thumb along the top of my hand, back and forth, soothingly. “Do you want to keep going?”

“Yes,” I say without hesitation. “I like enough of it to stay. I want to be with my friends, use my body, and feel healthy. I love being able to exercise and do all the things in this body that I can do well.”

He nods, then rises, grabs a tissue, and hands it to me. “I hear what you’re saying that you don’t want to ask her to lower it, but for what it’s worth I don’t think that makes you difficult,” he says, his voice soft, free of judgment. I understand why they call him The Professor—his tone isn’t confrontational; it’s thoughtful, steady. It calms my wild beast of a heart.

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