“Sorry,” I mutter. “I was thirsty.”
He turns to face me and leans his shoulder into the refrigerator, folding his arms over his chest. “I don’t care if you drink my juice, Tate.”
Oh, wow.
That was an oddly sexy sentence. So was his presence in delivering it.
Still no smile, though. Jesus Christ, this man. Does he not realize that facial expressions are supposed to accompany speech?
I don’t want him to see my disappointment, so I turn back toward the sink. I use the sprayer to wash the remaining suds down the drain. I find it quite fitting, considering the weird vibes floating around his kitchen. “How long have you lived here?” I ask, attempting to alleviate the awkward silence as I turn and face him again.
“Four years.”
I don’t know why I laugh, but I do. He raises an eyebrow, confused about why his answer caused me to laugh.
“It’s just that your apartment . . .” I glance toward the living room, then back to him. “It’s kind of bland. I thought maybe you just moved in and haven’t had a chance to decorate.”
I didn’t mean for that to come out like an insult, but that’s exactly how it sounded. I’m just trying to make conversation, but I think I’m only making this awkwardness worse.
His eyes move slowly around his apartment as he processes my comment. I wish I could take it back, but I don’t even try. I’d probably just make it worse.
“I work a lot,” he says. “I never have company, so I guess it just hasn’t been a priority.”
I want to ask him why he never has company, but certain questions seem off limits to him. “Speaking of company, what’s up with Dillon?”
Miles shrugs his shoulders, leaning his back completely against the refrigerator. “Dillon’s an asshole who has no respect for his wife,” he says flatly. He turns around completely and walks out of the kitchen, heading toward his bedroom. He pushes his bedroom door closed but leaves it open just enough so that I can still hear him speak. “Thought I’d warn you before you fell for his act.”
“I don’t fall for acts,” I say. “Especially acts like Dillon’s.”
“Good,” he says.
Good? Ha. Miles doesn’t want me to like Dillon. I love that Miles doesn’t want me to like Dillon.
“Corbin wouldn’t like it if you started something up with him. He hates Dillon.”
Oh. He doesn’t want me to like Dillon for Corbin’s sake. Why did that just disappoint me?
He walks back out of his bedroom, and he’s no longer in his jeans and T-shirt. He’s in a familiar pair of slacks and a crisp, white shirt, unbuttoned and open.
He’s putting on a pilot’s uniform.
“You’re a pilot?” I ask, somewhat perplexed. My voice makes me sound oddly impressed.
He nods and walks into the laundry room adjacent to the kitchen. “That’s how I know Corbin,” he says. “We were in flight school together.” He walks back into his kitchen with a laundry basket and sets it on the counter. “He’s a good guy.”
His shirt isn’t buttoned.
I’m staring at his stomach.
Stop staring at his stomach.
Oh my word, he has the V. Those beautiful indentations on men that run the length of their outer abdominal muscles, disappearing beneath their jeans as if the indentations are pointing to a secret bull’s-eye.
Jesus Christ, Tate, you’re staring at his damn crotch!
He’s buttoning his shirt now, so I somehow gain superhuman strength and force my eyes to look back up at his face.
Thoughts. I should have some of those, but I can’t find them. Maybe it’s because I just found out he’s an airline pilot.
But why would that impress me?
It doesn’t impress me that Dillon’s a pilot. But then again, I didn’t find out Dillon was a pilot while he was doing laundry and flaunting his abs. A guy folding laundry while flaunting his abs and being a pilot is seriously impressive.
Miles is fully dressed now. He’s putting on his shoes, and I’m watching him like I’m in a theater and he’s the main attraction.
“Is that safe?” I ask, finding a coherent thought somehow. “You’ve been drinking with the guys, and now you’re about to be at the controls of a commercial jet?”
Miles zips his jacket, then picks up an already packed duffel bag from the floor. “I’ve only had water tonight,” he says, right before exiting the kitchen. “I’m not much of a drinker. And I definitely don’t drink on work nights.”
I laugh and follow him toward the living room. I walk to the table to grab my things. “I think you’re forgetting how we met,” I say. “Move-in day? Someone-passed-out-drunk-in-the-hallway day?”