One Bossy Offer (131)

Miles meets my eyes. His mouth opens.

God, he’s so beautiful.

He’s going to say something, and whatever it is it will leave me a sobbing mess.

With the leashes still twined tightly around my hand, I yank the dogs toward me and run back the way I came.

Yep.

Still addicted.

I can’t get caught up in him again.

Even if I gave in and told him I love every part of him, there’s no guarantee he wouldn’t change his mind again.

No promise he’d ever accept me, understand me, and try to build a life for us.

Right now, it’s a chase.

A game he’s losing, and billionaire beasts as driven as Miles Cromwell hate accepting defeat.

Once I’ve admitted I’m still in love with him, he’s won.

He’ll need to find a new game.

I can’t take that kind of heartbreak again.





Back at home, I draw a hot bath, down some more wine—don’t worry, I’ve started limiting myself to two glasses at a time—and doze off among the bubbles with my head propped up.

When I open my eyes, I’m back on Miles’ yacht.

We’re in warm waters. The high sun feels almost tropical.

He steals me away to the master cabin without uttering a word.

There’s a familiar nude picture of me on the wall, but there’s a curtain over it.

“Nothing will ever do you justice in the flesh,” he growls before he kisses me. “Fuck, kitten. You’ve kept me waiting forever.”

I don’t resist as he pushes me against the wall and devours me, each heady stroke of his tongue reaching down inside me.

He sets me on fire like no one ever will.

When I blink, we’re still in his bed, and we’re not making love.

The sex is over.

Shame.

But Miles cradles me, peppering my neck with tender kisses, raking his stubble against my skin like he’s marking me. The sensation makes me giggle, but the whole moment is sweeter than chocolate.

Then he places his hand over my stomach and asks, “Should we go?”

I don’t understand.

Not until I take a deep breath and look down. The usual chonkyness around my belly is more like a proper balloon.

Holy shit, I’m—

“Maybe. I’m not sure,” I answer.

“I vote go, kitten. If I’m wrong, they’ll send us home. But I’d feel better if we went to the hospital.” He helps me up.

That’s when I wake up with tears in my eyes, mourning everything that might’ve been, and all the things that will never be.

Screw the two-glass rule.

Miles effing Cromwell, why did you have to send me away that day?

Why couldn’t you have just let me in, let me help, and proved you get me?

The irony is I ended up helping anyway, and he knows how much I helped him.

How much does a good deed matter if we’re both miserable?

Sometimes, I forget this is a game.

But I’m starting to wish everything that’s happened ever since Gram died was just a bittersweet dream.





28





No Last Word (Miles)





Benson helps me load poster-sized placards into my SUV one by one, side-eyeing me hard every time I grumble.

“What is it you always say, sir? Time spent second-guessing is wasted time.”

“Why did I ever think this would work? If revamping her grandmother’s garden, dispatching bees from Seattle, and a whole damn boat didn’t seal the deal, then how will some amateur paintings do me any good?” I ask.

Benson just looks at me and smiles, his old eyes twinkling. “Somehow, I’ve got a feeling this is closer to what Miss Landers prefers. Speaking straight from the heart usually goes a lot further than any lavish gifts.”

“That makes no sense.”

He chuckles, lifting the last card into the trunk. “In case you haven’t realized it yet, Mr. Cromwell, love isn’t logical. If you’re still expecting a consistent rhyme and a reason, well, you haven’t figured it out.”

Damn him, he’s gone full philosopher, but he’s right.

“Do you think this will work? Don’t lie to me.”

“I think you’ll know for certain, one way or the other, when it’s finished.”

“That’s what worries me,” I say.

“If it doesn’t work, will you just give up?”

My jaw tightens. “You know I can’t. Not when she’s a five-minute walk away, Benson.”

“Then good luck, sir.”

A few minutes later, with Benson in the passenger seat this time, I pull up in front of the inn, grab the placards from the trunk, and head for her front door.

I rap my knuckles against the cold wood and wait.

The knock echoes through the whole house and my entire soul.

A dog barks in the distance ahead of footsteps.

Then Jenn cracks the door open.

She’s more beautiful than ever. Her auburn hair is messed up like she’s just been outside in the wind, spilling down her neck and framing those green stars for eyes that lock on to mine.

She’s not happy to see me.

Her face falls and her mouth twists as she says, “Miles—”