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Miles’ eyes widen, but his gentlemanly ways soon overtake his confusion. “C-course!” he stammers, gesturing behind him. “Come on—”
I don’t wait for him to finish before I storm inside, closing the door behind me. His trailer is nicer than my hotel room. It’s very white and sterile-looking, but he’s got a little vanity table, a leather couch that looks like it pulls out into a bed, and what must be a bathroom off the tiny side hallway.
Miles moves to stand in front of me, leaning against the vanity. There’s an unreadable expression on his face. “Willa,” he repeats, and once again, it makes my insides melt. “To what do I owe the—”
“Why the hell am I on the show?” I blurt, so quickly it almost sounds like one word. Dammit. This was not at all the script I planned…
Miles looks taken aback for a fraction of a second. “I’m sorry… what?”
“Why the hell,” I grit, finally daring myself to look into his eyes, “am I on this show?”
There’s a full five second pause before Miles understands what I’m talking about. “Oh,” he says, something akin to recognition sliding across his face. “Do you think I had any say in–?”
“Of course you did!” I blurt, tossing my hands in the air. Does he think I’m an idiot? “You may be a guest judge, but you’re Miles fucking Compton! Your dad runs the entire DC bakery scene. There’s no way you—”
“I had nothing to do with that,” he says firmly. This time, his voice is different. Loud. Booming. “Willa… Please, you’ve got to believe me on this. You probably think I’m a jackass who ruined your life, and I’m not saying you don’t deserve to believe that, but please…” His eyes meet mine again. “I had nothing to do with you being on the show, and I want you to know that.”
A beat.
“Why should I believe you?”
He sighs, looking away again. He shifts his weight, crossing his arms over his white button-up shirt that probably cost more than my car. “I have a conflict of interest with you that is far more than professional.”
I roll my eyes. “Yeah, no shit! Which time specifically do you mean? The time where you left the blast freezer open and ruined my final for culinary school?” I don’t mean to, but I’m allowing the rage to build in my chest. To crawl up my throat. To explode from my mouth. “Or the time you demanded a cake when my bakery was already closed, and just happened to stumble on my fiance fucking someone else, which then led to the forced closing of said bakery? Or how about the millions of times you were an asshole to me throughout culinary school? Or glared at me like I didn’t belong in the room? Or—”
It happens in a flash. In a burst of heat.
He’s a white blur as he storms towards me… and in a split second, his hand presses to my mouth. Those goddamn eyes are staring into mine again, even more penetrating than before. My chest heaves, my core pounding. What the hell is wrong with me?
Fuuuuck. I whimper beneath the pressure of his palm, but not from pain. His body is so warm… so close. And fucking hell, it’s been so long since—
“Have you ever stopped to consider,” he rasps, his face inches from mine, “that maybe — just maybe — I don’t hate you?”
He doesn’t move his hand from my mouth, but I don’t know how I’d respond if he did. Instead, his other hand drifts down my neck, leaving a trail of fire in its wake. “I could never hate you,” he whispers almost reverently. I can only whimper and lean my head back, allowing more access. I don’t know what he’s doing, or why. And I know this is a terrible fucking idea. But for the love of God, I hope he doesn’t stop.
The Wheel of Fortune must be on my side; he doesn’t.
His fingers trail, lower and lower, caressing my shoulder bones, pushing my peasant, blouse off my shoulder, and even though I’m mostly clothed, I’ve never felt so naked. Warm. He draws a deep, shuddering breath, looks up at me, and removes his hand from my mouth. When his eyes meet mine, they’re fervent. Burning.
“I am going to kiss you.” It’s not a question.
I can only reply with a single word that seems to echo in the empty trailer. “Yes.”
And then, he’s kissing me… actually kissing me. Miles fucking Compton is kissing me on Valentine’s Day in his trailer. But I don’t have time to ponder the logistics of that, not when his lips are soft and gentle on mine, not when his calloused hands are moving on my neck… then sliding down my waist… then caressing the swell of my ass. I don’t have time to consider that this time yesterday, I considered him my mortal enemy, with absolutely no nuance allowed.
I never once considered that maybe, just maybe, all of that hatred was hiding something much different…
He pulls himself back with what seems like a Herculean strength. “Is this okay with you?” he asks, his eyelids fluttering.
“What the hell do you think?” I demand, draping my arms over his neck again. He chuckles against my lips, but doesn’t fight me… Not this time.
Because now that I know what I want, I’m not gonna stop.
I drag him to the couch, arms around his shoulders, and suddenly, I can’t feel enough of him… I can’t feel enough of his tall, lean body on mine, or his erection pressed to my inner thigh, or the way he growls from low in his throat as I leave gentle bites on his neck.
He keeps murmuring my name with soft reverence, his hands all over my hips, then roaming down my thighs as I straddle him… and for the first time in my life, kissing someone feels effortless. Like fate meant it to happen this way. It’s the easiest thing I can imagine, easier than breathing. I don’t have it in me to feel embarrassment, not when he’s holding my hips in place as I rock against him on the couch.
“Willa,” he moans again, his voice growing more strained. “Willa, I — fuck.”
