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“Aw,” Ashleigh coos, clutching her heart. “Misunderstood little wine.”
He scoffs. “It’s on the calendar. It might as well be etched into the annals of history.” “It’s pronounced anals,” Ashleigh says. Miles looks to me, brow lifting. I shake my head. “It’s definitely not.
He smiles faintly, tucking my hair behind my ear. It makes me feel like a two-liter bottle of soda flipped upside down, all the bubbles suddenly rushing in the opposite direction. “Hey, tell me something.” “What?” I ask.
On Sunday, Miles surprised me and (a less than thrilled) Julia with a drive down to a little town called North Bear Shores for a bookstore event with a romance writer Sadie had turned me on to years ago. After the signing, the shop owner and her geology professor wife ended up falling in love with Miles (obviously) and making a donation toward the Read-a-thon. On Monday,
That I’m doing what I swore I never would: making space in my heart for someone whom experience has taught me not to trust.