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I hadn’t warned him about where I lived. I should have, but I’d wanted to see how he would react. I’d been through this plenty with new friends and dates. I’d seen a spectrum of responses, but I truly couldn’t predict what Miles’s would be.
A minute passed. He was still standing by his SUV, looking doubtful, so I went outside to the landing at the top of my stairs.
“Miles,” I called.
His head whipped in my direction. “Daisy-daze!” He closed his door and started toward me. “I thought I was in the wrong place.”
“Right place, right on time.” I leaned against the wood railing, waiting for him as he climbed the steps. “I should’ve told you I live above a garage.”
“That would’ve been helpful.” He grinned, his gaze sweeping over me. “You might’ve mentioned the funeral home too. It’s a pretty big landmark.”
“Have you been here before?”
He cupped the back of his neck. “To the funeral home? Yeah, a few times. It’s been years, though, and I can’t say I’m sorry for it.”
“I don’t blame you. No one’s eager to come back here.”
Miles stood in front of me on the landing, his arms crossed over his chest. “Daisy Dunham. That’s your family’s place.”
He wasn’t asking, but I confirmed anyway. “It is. That’s where I grew up.”
“Must’ve been interesting.”
I shrugged. “It was just life. I’ve never known anything else.”
I showed him into my little apartment, bracing for his judgment or intrusive questions. I’d heard plenty over the years, from the time I was little into adulthood. People didn’t like to think about death, but once they knew what my family did and where we lived, most found it impossible not to think about it, and it made them uncomfortable.
“How long have you lived in this apartment?” Miles asked, taking me by surprise. That was not the first question I’d expected to come from him.
“Not long. Just over a month. My older brother lived here before me, and my sister before that.”
He nodded. “It was your turn.”
“I guess.”
His gaze swept over me, lingering on my bare feet. “You’re not wearing black today. Only on your toes.”
I wiggled my polished toes and tucked my hands in my jeans. I wasn’t wearing anything special. Just old jeans and a slightly cropped red T-shirt. “Sometimes I like to acknowledge there are other colors.”
“Red looks good on you. But I liked gothed-out Lydia-Daisy-Cupcake too.”
“Lydia again?” I pressed my hand to my forehead.
“Suits you.”
Then he was on the move again, checking out the kitchen, looking at pictures hanging on the wall, even peeking into my tiny bedroom. It didn’t feel intrusive. This apartment wasn’t really home yet. It was a way station until I figured out my next move. I was lucky to have had this after the implosion of my relationship, but the flip side was this place had become a reminder of that failure.
Miles swept his palm over the postage-stamp-sized island in my barely-there kitchen. “You moved here after your breakup.”
“Yes.” I wrapped my arms around my middle. “How did you know that?”
“Nick likes to talk, which is why I never tell him anything I don’t mind being spread around.”
“That was tragically uncool of him.”
“Yeah, but in this case, I’m glad I know so I don’t make any off-color jokes about spinsters or cat ladies…” He flashed me a wide grin before spinning away to continue his tour of my apartment even though he’d already studied every surface.
“I’m relieved you aren’t joking about me dying alone, my face eaten by my pack of cats.”
