Page 49 of Miles Apart
Chapter 22
Miles
I’m not a man who subscribes to the idea of happy accidents. Accidents rely too much on chance, and I’m too skeptical not to consider other forces at play. Chance is a vulnerability that will leave you defenseless if left unaddressed.
Every decision I make is based off of evidence. I scrutinize the details before I take action. It’s a guiding principle of mine, one that’s now being challenged by the woman who’s sound asleep on the spare blankets in front of the fire.
Emma has me acting so far out of character, I question my own common sense. In one month, she breached the armor I put in place to keep myself from caring for a woman the way I’m starting to care for her.
The shit is irrational, like flying to Milan to see her after she dipped out of New York. Almost a month has passed since Colorado, and I’ve been struggling not to think about her, wondering how she’s doing, and when the next time we’d see each other would be. The women I’ve been with in the past faded with time, but here I am, watching the glow of flames dance across her face while she snores into the night.
I don’t believe in coincidence, but too many have occurred for me to not to question if Em is supposed to play a bigger role in my life.
Aeris choosing us at Ravenous.
Matching after speed dating.
New York.
Random incidents forcing us to take notice.
I lift Emma from the ground, careful not to stir her awake or bust my ass over these blankets. Tonight was cold enough for a fire, but all of this cotton has to be some type of hazard.
We haven’t left her suite since I arrived two days ago. I had to find an Italian alternative for Gatorade the way we’ve been losing electrolytes. We can’t get enough of each other and fuck like there’s no tomorrow—there won’t be if Emma has her way. She doesn’t want to see me in any romantic sense after this trip, and I’m not wasting time arguing with her if we only have a few more days.
I peel back the covers on her bed to tuck her in, careful not to press my lips to her forehead. That’s another thing: kissing. Putting my mouth on a woman is an intimacy I don’t give freely. But with Emma, it’s effortless.
Tomorrow, we’ll restart our routine. With the exception of lunch, when we walk to stretch our legs, every meal comes to the suite under a silver dome.
No romantic gestures.
No details about our lives.
No activities that veer into dating.
The setup is perfect for sex without strings, but the strings are here with us, whether we want to admit it or not.
Chapter 23
Emma
Coming to the store hungry was a stupid idea. I know it, my temper knows it, and my stomach, which is currently cussing me out in growls, knows it.
I pop another seedless grape into my mouth and glare at the wide-shouldered man in a tacky tropical shirt and khaki shorts, clothes not warm enough for February. His judgy eyes narrow at the next grape I pluck from the bag. He looks like he’s contemplating a civilian’s arrest.
“Can I help you?”
He shakes his semi-bald head, which is littered with dimples, presses his shopping basket to his side, and flaps off in worn brown flip-flops. When I’m not hangry, I’m not a confrontational person, but I contemplate bouncing a grape off the back of his head.
“It’s not about dick,” I mumble to myself, pushing my shopping cart with more force than necessary.
Beverly Hills Rent-a-Copisa dick, but he’s not the one on my mind.
Peen withdrawal a week before my period is deadly timing. Add in my need to eat, and I’ll rip open every chip bag and hump the cashier for good measure.
The grocery store I’m at is a half-hour drive from my house. I don’t come to Beverly Hills unless it’s necessary, but this location is the only one in the vicinity with my favorite champagne.
My Milan trip ended yesterday. I shook off the jet lag by sleeping in, but not the frustration that’s been following me around since Miles left Italy a day before me. I’d never spent more than two days with a lover but found myself losing track of time. Before I knew it, four nights has passed in a maze of clothes and blankets. We spent most days reciting the rhythms of our bodies, discovering new harmonies for symphonies of pleasure on the surfaces we christened. We avoided any signs of intimacy. We never slept in the same room or went on a date.
