Page 7 of Atlas & Miles
I sighed. My life was full of what-ifs and maybes, never any adventure, any risk. I was happy with that, too. That was just the way I wanted it.
Wasn’t it?
My turn signal clicked and blinked as I pulled into a parking spot at Fresh Brews. Though I couldn’t really smell the coffee from here, I could almost taste the rich, caramel scent of roasted beans being brewed—the smell of pure heaven on earth.
I grabbed my wallet, jumped out of my beat-up, ten-year-old pickup truck, and pocketed my keys. As I headed toward the coffee shop, I grabbed my phone, pulling up and skimming my schedule from the app I used to find customers, ever the multitasker. The app was a minor annoyance, but it kept the administrative side of my business simple.
Scanning my jobs for today, I saw that I had an appointment to fix someone’s internet just a few streets over. But . . . shit. It was scheduled for between two and five. Maybe I could call the customer and bump up the timeline?
My head was buried in my phone, unsuccessfully trying to look up the customer’s contact info, as I approached the door of Fresh Brews, seeing it in my periphery. What I didn’t notice was the person I nearly crashed into when we both reached for the door at the same time.
“Oh, I’m so sorry!” my victim shouted, and my head whipped up at the sound. Oh, fuck, thatvoice. . .
As I stared at him, at his gorgeous lips and flowing hair—long on the top, dyed a very fashionable blond, and shaved on the sides—and perfect twink body, I knew I was looking at my teenaged wet dream personified, my unrequited high school crush, my fantasy come to life.
“No, p-please, it was my fault,” I stuttered.Dammit to hell.I cleared my throat. “Atlas St. James?”
Beautiful sage-green eyes set off with black eyeliner and bright purple eyeshadow that made my heart flutter widened. And the minute I saw recognition flash in them, he inexplicably and adorably blushed. Fuckingblushed. “Miles Johnson?”
I smiled at his reaction, and my dick took notice. Shit, I could not get hard in these jeans.Think of horribly boring things. Tile grout. Paint trays. Invoicing.Yep, that did the trick. “Guilty as charged.” I gave him a sheepish smile. “It’s been, what—twenty years?”
He nodded, his cheeks still adorably red, and as the color traveled down his neck, I wondered how far that blush went beneath the collar of his mint-green silk blouse that tied at his throat and flared down his arms. He had what I would call a small purse in dark green slung over one shoulder. “Yeah, I just moved back—this past weekend, actually.”
He backed up half a step, tucking the hair that had slipped off the top of his head behind his ear as he averted his gaze. I’d never seen Atlas embarrassed aboutanything; he’d been out and proud since I’d known him. What did it mean? The only time I blushed was when—
Wait. Was he . . . intome?
No, that was ridiculous. Someone this amazing? No way would he be interested in a slouchy, grouchy handyman who bought his clothes at a big box store and wouldn’t know fashion if it hit him between the eyes. On top of that, my hair was too long—it touched my shoulders when I wore it down, unlike the man bun I had at the crown of my head today—and my facial hair was a little scraggly. I really needed to clean up my beard and get to the barber.
He was staring at me expectantly, and I realized I should probably say something before I made this even more awkward. “Oh, well, welcome back.”Smooth.
He smiled kindly. “Thanks. It wasn’t my first choice, but here I am, determined to make the best of it.”
I huffed a humorless laugh, scrubbing a hand down my beard before shoving it in my pocket so I’d stop touching my face. It was bad enough my other hand was still clutching my phone like a lifeline. “Yeah, that’s kind of the motto of our town, right?”
Like clouds breaking after a storm, Atlas’s face lit up, and the most beautiful, genuine laugh, deeper than I expected, erupted from his throat. He quirked an eyebrow my way. “Who knew Miles Johnson was so funny?”
“Um . . . thanks?”
Shut up, Miles.
I forced myself to meet his gaze. “You . . .” I gestured at the glass door to my left. “You wanna head inside?”
Atlas blinked then smiled again, and butterflies took off in my chest. “Of course.” He pulled open the door then stepped aside. “After you.”
I ducked my head to hide my reddening cheeks at his gesture. Looking at the two of us side by side, one would assume I would be the one holding the door open for him. But that was some heteronormative cisgender bullshit, wasn’t it?
Oh, shit, did Atlas even use he/him pronouns? Dammit. I should ask him, or was it them? But did they want me to ask?
Despite the flurry of thoughts swirling in my brain, I kept my mouth shut as we stepped into line together. Atlas’s closeness warmed my insides a lot more than I expected.
“So . . .” Atlas started, and I glanced over—and down—at them.
My thick-soled work boots usually gave me an extra inch, and despite the short heels they were wearing, which probably gave them an inch or two, I towered over them.
They caught my gaze for the briefest of moments, something significant swirling in the depths of their green eyes, but then they looked away and glanced at the chalkboard menu above the counter. “What’s good here?”
I fought a wide grin. With the look they’d given me, I could’ve sworn they were going to say something more profound than what actually came out of their mouth. But I was glad for the safe topic of conversation. “I haven’t found a bad coffee here yet. I was thrilled when this place opened up a few years ago—The Roll may have the best cinnamon rolls in the state, but their coffee is still terrible.”
