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“I’m excited for you. I’ve never been so invested in characters in a series before.” Even if now, I’m mildly terrified my favorite anti-hero will wind up dead by the end of it. His death had better be extra noble. And his second had better cry over his body in a big dramatic scene.
“Not even your romances? You get pretty caught up in them.”
It’s a polite way of saying I obsess over my couples. I accept that.
“I might love the characters, but there’s usually less stress in those. I’m always guaranteed a happy ending.” I stare hard at him.
He just stares back.
“Sure would be nice to know all the characters will wind up safe and sound in the end, right?” I add a wink as I get up to clear our bowls away.
That earns a short laugh. “I think you would eviscerate me if I actually spoiled the book for you.”
“It would be so painful too.” I come back from the kitchen with the Dutch apple pie I baked this morning. I set it in front of him like it’s his birthday and we’re ready to light the candles.
Shoot. I should have got candles.
“What’s this?” he asks.
“I suspect you still have some celebrating to do. It’s for Miles Forrester, Andromeda Award nominee, writer genius, best boss ever, esquire, and such and such, in perpetuity, yada yada.”
He stares up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face like the brightest comet streaking across the night sky. “I’m honored. Thank you.”
In typical Miles fashion, he’s makingmefeel like the one who deserves the accolades and the celebratory pie. I curtsy like a goof and serve up slices for us.
He takes his first bite and groans his approval. “This is so good, Georgia.”
I’m ready to do a happy dance in my chair.Success! His mom used to own a bakery in town—impressing him with pastries is a big deal.
“If you’re not going to promise me that Captain Aster and his second fly off into the sunset, then I guess we’d better talk aboutyourhappily ever after.”
Some of his pie delight fades. “Terrible transition.”
“Perfecttransition. I really do have a short-list of candidates and ideas for potential first dates. Do you want to go over them, or do you want to be surprised?”
His expression falls as though I offered to stab him in the heart. The hurt look in his eyes winks out my eagerness. Like alot of things in my life, just because I’m excited about something doesn’t mean anyone else shares my enthusiasm.
“I’m sorry,” I say, easing off the pushiness. “Do you really not want to date anyone? Maybe you’re…demisexual or something? I don’t want to force you into a situation that would make you truly uncomfortable. The whole point was to try to bring more happiness into your life, not less.”
I really do have good intentions, but none of that matters if I’m actually hurting him in the end. I would never do that.
“Sometimes I get over-excited and do my best impression of a steamroller.” He knows that, but it bears repeating. I put my hand over his where it rests on the table. “I’ll let it go if you’re just not interested in dating.”
He loops his thumb over my fingers, locking me in. His eyes never break from mine. Everything inside me stills as though I have more riding on his answer than a few names on my Notes app.
“I am interested in dating,” he finally says.
Relief floods through me, and I bust out a stupid grin.
“I don’t think I’m demisexual, but I haven’t thought about it much. Sometimes sparks hit right away. Other times…it’s a slow-burning ember that grows into an inferno as friendship develops into something deeper.”
Oh. It’s suddenly really warm in here. Why am I wearing a sweater when it’s almost eighty-five degrees out? I let go of him and wipe my clammy hand on my jeans.
He flexes his fingers. Doubleoh. Did he feel the clamminess too? So gross.
I force a laugh. “See? You’re a romantic at heart. You just need a little push.”
“You’re a romantic, too, but you don’t date either. Maybe you need a push too.”
