Page 41 of Heart Set on You

Rylee grins, and it makes me wish every night could feel this good. I imagine making dinner with Rylee after work, talking about our days, cuddling on the sofa before slipping into our bed together. I come back to reality with a start. Our bed? What the fuck was that? Jesus, Miles. You’re really getting ahead of yourself.

But I can’t deny it. I want more nights like this with Rylee. I’m happy and relaxed and all I want is to be around her. She is… God, she is amazing. And I can’t seem to quiet the voice that is telling me to make her mine, to hold onto her and never let her go.

Chapter Seventeen

Rylee

Miles is officially my favorite person on the planet to cook for. He had three helpings of my chicken and dumplings and looked like he had died and gone to heaven with every bite. He sure knows how to make a girl feel good.

“When did you have time to do all this?” Miles holds up one of my homemade chocolate chip cookies. “These are better than… dare I say it… sex.”

“Hm. Are you sure about that?” I take one of his feet in my hands and tickle it. We’re sprawled out on the couch in his living room, our heads resting on opposite ends of the sofa, our feet a tangled mess in the center. I rub the sole of his foot, tracing the arch with my fingers. The man has seriously sexy feet. For the first time I understand the concept of a foot fetish; who knew I had a kink?

“You’re right. But they are close.” He laughs. “Stop. You’re not playing fair.” He pops the last bite of his cookie into his mouth, jerking his foot away from my hand.

“I didn’t know there were rules,” I joke, reaching for this other foot, but he’s too quick. Next thing I know, Miles has sat up and is straddling my hips, his famous hazel eyes on mine.

“Can I see the photos now?”

A small grin tugs at the corners of my mouth. “Okay.”

He moves off me so I can grab my camera from the kitchen. I sit beside him on the sofa and hand it over. He flips through three or four of the photos I took, viewing the images on the small square screen on the back of my mom’s old Canon. The maple tree in the yard with the Pacific Ocean in the distance. The light cast over the sea, the thinness of the clouds over the sun, everything tinted in orange.

“These are incredible.”

“They need to be edited.”

“They don’t need a thing.”

Miles turns and kisses my temple. “You have a talent, Ryls. I’d love to see more of your photos. Can I keep flipping through?”

“You can,” I tell him, dropping back against the couch. He lies down, resting his head in my lap with his legs stretched out across the sofa. We spend the next 30 minutes or so like this, me running my fingers slowly through his hair while he flips through my captures.

“Who’s this?” he asks, tilting the screen towards me.

“That’s Lainey, my niece. She was eating a slice of my gran’s cherry pie and she had it everywhere. It was so cute. My sister-in-law had to strip her out of her clothes and give her a bath she was such a mess.”

“She’s adorable. The perfect muse. You captured her at just the right moment. I don’t know how you take such incredible photos.”

“It’s not hard with a subject as cute as her. Her brother and sister too. I’ve taken hundreds of photos of those three.”

Miles flipped through a few more. “You’re the best photographer I know.”

“I bet I’m the only one you know.”

“I could know hundreds of photographers and you’d still be my favorite,” he says, looking up at me with a genuine warmth. The compliment zinging straight to my core. “And these are your grandparents?”

“Yes. That’s my gran and gramps on the farm.” My fingers continue running through the short strands of his hair. My gaze dips down to Miles in my lap, scrolling through photos of my life on the farm. I barely recognize my life. I mean, look at me sitting on the couch with Miles Bennett’s beautiful face in my lap. It feels like a dream.

“Is this the farm where you grew up?”

“It is. I was 13 when my brothers and I went to live there.”

The room falls silent as Miles moves my camera to the coffee table then turns his head to look at me. “Rylee, you don’t have to answer my next question,” he says, weaving his fingers through mine. “But I want to ask you because I want to know all of you. Why did you live with your grandparents?”

I knew it was only a matter of time before we got to this part of my life.

It’s not something I talk about. It’s not something I share. And yet, for some reason I want to share it with Miles. I’m just not sure where to start.

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