Once Upon a Sure Thing (Heartbreakers #2)(22)

She clicks to the next shot. It’s a completely goofy selfie where she sticks out her tongue, tilts her head sideways, and makes her eyes bug out. “Oops. I wasn’t supposed to show that to you,” she mutters, covering the screen with her hand as she navigates away from the image.

“Why?” I ask curiously.

She mumbles, “It’s for your Christmas present.”

And my heart melts into a huge puddle. I wrap an arm around her and squeeze her shoulder. “I won’t tell Santa you’re giving it to me. I love it.”

“You do?” she asks, both hope and worry in her tone.

“Of course. It’s amazing. In fact, I can’t think of a thing I’d rather have.” I mean it from the bottom of my heart. This is the perfect gift. Because she knew I’d love it. Because she did it for me. Because she’s smiling, and being silly, and knowing I love her.

“Are you enjoying your photography class?” I ask as I take a drink of my honey-drenched tea. I need to keep my vocal cords well-lubed since I’m asking them to do more heavy lifting than usual.

She pushes her glasses higher on the bridge of her nose. “It’s a lot of fun. You should take a photography class.”

“You think so?”

She shrugs. “Or take whatever you like. If you could learn something just for fun, what would it be?”

I consider that for a minute, and the answer arrives as Chloe moves her mittens away from her hot chocolate.

“Knitting,” I say with certainty. “I’d like to take my knitting to the next level.”

“I love your mittens though,” she says, holding up the red and gray pair I made for her last year.

“But I want to learn cool patterns and stuff. And I want to make sassier hats. All I make are these standard ones.” I tap my seashell-pink hat.

“Sassy Hats,” she says, as if she’s testing out the words together. “Sassy Hats by Ally.”

“My next career.”

“I’d buy a sassy hat from you, Aunt Ally.”

I force my smile not to slip when she calls me that. Really, what do I expect? I’m not her mom. I’m her aunt, the sassy hatmaker.

She shuts down the computer and reaches for her hot chocolate, wrapping her hands around it as she takes a sip. A dash of whipped cream decorates her top lip.

“You have a mustache,” I tell her as I take another drink of tea.

“Maybe I want to have one,” she says in a silly voice.

“Maybe add a beard, then,” I say, and then I tell myself it doesn’t matter what she calls me. This matters. How she is with me. She’s playful and sharp, and she’s shared her work with me. That matters more than a name, more than a title.

She dips her finger in the mug, scoops off some whipped cream, and slashes some over her chin.

“No fair. No one told me we were making whipped cream beards today,” a deep baritone booms.

I look up to see Miller joining us. His hazel eyes sparkle with delight, and his smile makes my heart do a little kick.

My stomach decides to get in on the action, flipping and flopping as I linger on his square jawline, his lips, his lean, ropy body.

I grab my tea and take another drink, desperately needing something to do besides gawk at my best friend like I’ve only just noticed he’s one of the most attractive men ever in the history of the universe.

“I better get two hot chocolates, then, if we’re making beards,” he says.

I rise and grab his arm. “No.”

“What?”

“That night you had two, remember? After we went to see Jumanji? You made me promise to never let you drink that many again.”

“That’s true,” Chloe chimes in. “I pinky-swore to hold you back.”

“Ladies,” he says with a sigh as he shakes his head, “I’m a lost cause. I had a half dozen with Campbell the other week. You can’t save me. Save yourselves.”

“Can I have another, then?” Chloe chimes in sweetly.

“Because Miller is a piggy?” I ask.

Chloe laughs. “Seems fair.”

“Yes,” I say, giving her permission.

Soon, he returns with the drinks, adding a dollop above his lips.

Grabbing her camera, Chloe snaps a picture of him. Then she takes one of me when Miller swipes some whipped cream under my nose. I laugh, then wipe it off as Chloe gives him the same tour of her pictures she gave me. He pays rapt attention, asks questions, and shares his thoughts.

And the whole time, I’m thinking about licking that dollop of whipped cream off his lips.



*

Later, after Chloe goes to bed, Miller and I spit-shine and polish our song at my kitchen counter while I start on a new hat with a pink skull-and-crossbones design for Sam.

“Are you ready to record tomorrow?”

“I am,” I say, and that’s the understatement of the year.

“Will you be wearing your wig?”

“I should, right?”

“If it’s part of your persona, yeah. Are you going to keep up the whole Honey Lavender style?”

As my needles click, I swallow and ask nervously, “Do you like it?”

He looks me over and licks his lips. “Hell, yeah.”

I want to ditch the yarn, yank on the wig, and model it for him, then ask in a sexy, sultry tone if I turn him on.