Just One Kiss - J. Saman Page 0,19

there is most definitely a darkness to him that I don’t remember being there when we were younger. I didn’t ask him about the kiss or about where he went after he walked away. Yesterday wrecked me. Shook me to my core. And as I sit in this warm, soft bed, listening to the storm outside the window, I keep thinking… what would have happened to me if Miles hadn’t shown up?

It’s a sobering thought.

Because I had hit my head and was bleeding. Because I had banged up my knee pretty good and could barely put weight on it, let alone walk. Because I had no cell service and no idea where the nearest anything was since it was not only a blizzard out, but we’re pretty much in the middle of nowhere Vermont.

Scary stuff.

And I’m blaming my tiny crush on Miles as hero worship. It’s certainly not related to us tumbling down in the snow and him staring at my lips like he was hungry for a taste only to flash revulsion and regret right after. That stung.

That’s likely why I sat up awake, longer than I wanted last night, my mind filled with high school memories of him watching me when he didn’t think I noticed or the way he did it again last night. The sketches he used to draw of me that he thought I never saw and how he makes art for a living now. Yup, my fan-girl crush has nothing to do with the fact that he once stepped in on a guy being a bit too aggressive with me and now lives in this gorgeous home with a rescue dog who will only listen to Taylor Swift, so he plays it for her.

He doesn’t think I remember him, but I do.

I always remembered him.

I always saw him, even back then. Even when no one else did.

I shower in his gorgeous guest bathroom, deciding that later today I’m going to take a bath, and then change into a pretty black sweater that may or may not be on the tighter side and a pair of skinny jeans that may or may not hug my ass and thighs like they’re painted on. I might also blow out my hair and apply some makeup, just enough so that it looks like I’m not wearing any, but my skin is glowing, and my eyes are a little shimmery, and then I open the door to head downstairs.

Before I can make it very far, I hear him talking to Betsy and whatever he’s cooking up smells fantastic. Like bacon and eggs and pancakes and my stomach growls like I haven’t eaten in a hundred years. Which may be since I don’t cook much in the city—I have a tiny kitchen in my apartment—and my female friends don’t eat anything that could be construed as a carb or fat.

But it’s the way he’s talking to his dog that’s giving me pause.

The sweet, gentle tone he uses with her while speaking to her as if she’s a human who can read his mind. It has me smiling like crazy as I creep along the long open-air hall that overlooks the great room downstairs. I can’t see his kitchen as it’s off to the side, but I don’t have to. His voice carries, bouncing off all the hard surfaces this place is comprised of.

Betsy barks and I hear him making a tsking sound. “I already gave you two pieces of bacon. Don’t stand there barking at me when you’ve had more than you already should have.” She barks again and I hear him groan. “Okay. Last piece and I mean it. After this, you can eat your eggs and potatoes and like it.” Silence ensues and I tread carefully, still not wanting to interrupt this most adorable moment. But then Betsy barks again, this one sounding different and I hear him say, “She’ll be down soon, girl. But don’t get too attached to having her here. She’ll be gone before you know it.”

And that’s the moment that I stop dead in my tracks, a frown tracking down my face.

He’s not saying anything untrue or even mean, but it’s his tone. The cold indifference of it and I instantly go back to the way he looked at me last night before I tucked tail and ran in the house. He’s doing all these things for me because he’s a nice man with a big heart, an obvious caretaker, but he does not