Page 44 of Catching Feelings

“Find something?” Miles leans over me and picks up the sweatpants I put back.

“I’m sure we can find something more realistic.”

“What’s not realistic about these? They’re plain. Nothing weird on them. That’s what Jules likes. Simple.”

“They’re almost a hundred dollars.”

“Is that bad?”

“When was the last time you spent this much on a pair of comfort clothes that you’d never leave the house in?”

Miles shrugs his giant shoulders. “I’d leave the house in my boxers if I wouldn’t get arrested for indecent exposure.”

Indecent my ass. I’m sure naked Miles is quite decent to look at.

“Do you think she’ll like them?” he asks, picking out a pair in dark gray and another in navy blue

“Who wouldn’t? They’re like cashmere.”

“Would you wear them?”

“If I had a hundred bucks to spare? Sure.”

Miles grabs two more and drapes them over his arm. “I guess this is good for now. I’m starving, and I hate shopping when I’m hungry.”

I follow him to the register, but he stops short when we come across a rack of Boston Revolutions jerseys. Miles looks at me then hands me his keys.

“Mind waiting at the truck? I hate to leave all that kitchen stuff unsupervised in the parking lot.”

Unsupervised? Is he for real?

I can see his vehicle from where we’re standing, but I take his keys. “Um. Sure.”

A few minutes later, he climbs into the driver’s seat. “Hungry?”

“Sure.”

We drive out to a seafood shack by the water. It’s not too crowded with tourists now that it’s early September. I imagine it’s packed in the summer though.

Miles orders two fisherman’s platters and two lemonades and I sit at a picnic table while he waits for our number to be called.

It doesn’t take long, and I take one of the trays from him when he returns. “I can’t believe you ordered two of these. I’ll barely make a dent in mine.”

“Perfect because I can easily eat them both.” Instead of sitting across from me, he takes a seat next to me.

Our shoulders bump, as do our thighs as he gets settled. It’s not an easy feat climbing into a picnic table when your legs are as long as a football field.

I squeeze lemon over my fish and scallops and juice hits his face.

“Oh my god. I’m so sorry.” I laugh as I dab a napkin to his chin. “I didn’t mean to—”

“Squirt on my face?”

My hand freezes, and even with the cool breeze coming off the ocean, I can feel my face heat up with embarrassment. He didn’t mean...no. It’s my dirty mind taking the comment out of context.

He darts his tongue out and swipes it along his bottom lip. “No apologies needed. You...it tastes good.”

Oh. My. God.

---