Wait With Me (Wait With Me, #1)(13)

“Thank you,” I chirp and take a sip, enjoying the taste of alcohol after a long day of writing. Well, writing and fainting.

“Come on, let’s hear it,” he says, setting his beer down and propping his elbows on the table.

“Hear what?” I ask, batting my lashes innocently at him.

“What are you so busy doing every day at the Tire Depot Customer Comfort Center that you starve yourself into a fainting spell?”

I grab another breadstick and pop it into my mouth, chewing with a cocky smirk teasing my lips. “All I can say is that I was ‘in the zone.’”

He smirks back. Damn, I wish my smirk looked half as sexy as his does right now.

“You gotta give me more than that.” He gestures to the space between us. “Let’s call this a safe space. You can share openly, and nothing will be held against you.”

I exhale heavily because I knew there was no way I could break bread with this guy and not fess up. So I proceed to tell him my entire saga, all the way down to my favorite coffee, the pranks, and the side-eye looks.

He’s not really laughing so much as biting his lower lip to stop himself from reacting at all. I continue to rave about the vibe and the people and the coffee. I even go on and on about Betty for a good five minutes. I vomit up everything I’ve been preaching to Lynsey and Dean, as well as my fans on social media. How the Tire Depot is like an unpretentious coffee shop that’s inclusive of everyone. Well, everyone who owns a vehicle, I guess.

By the time I finish, I’m nearly out of breath.

Miles gives me a slow, disbelieving shake of the head. “And you’ve been doing this for over three weeks now?”

“Basically.” I shrug.

“And you’re writing a book? What’s the book about?”

I grimace at that question. “It doesn’t matter. I’m getting work done.”

“Why won’t you tell me what you’re writing?” he asks, his head flinching back at my curt response.

“Because it weirds people out.”

“How so?”

“If I tell you that, then I’ll be answering your question, and I don’t want to answer your question.”

“I won’t judge!” he argues, grabbing his beer and taking a drink.

I roll my eyes. “You’ll judge.”

This makes him chuckle with disbelief. “I mean, it’s pretty much obvious now.” I purse my lips, and he finally gives up. “Okay, fine, we don’t have to talk about what you’re writing.” I sag with relief. “Although, I will tell you I’m a bit of a historical fan, so if you tell me you’re writing the next Game of Thrones, we’ll basically have to get married and live happily ever after.”

This makes me giggle so hard, I nearly spew out the beer in my mouth. We’re interrupted by the pizza’s arrival, and since I still haven’t had any protein for the day, we drop what we’re talking about and focus on the food. The slices are bigger than my face, and we both carefully fold a piece in half and tuck into it like starved animals.

Even after three breadsticks, I’m still hungry enough to finish a whole huge slice, which is nothing compared to Miles’s three slices. He just double-stacked the last two into a pizza sandwich. A pizza sandwich! I marvel at where the hell that all goes because his body looks shredded beneath that stretch cotton shirt.

Another beer later, I finally ask the question that’s been in the back of my mind. “So are you going to tell anyone?”

His brows lift. “Tell them there’s this hot redhead frequenting the waiting room and could we please get rid of her? Um, pass.”

I giggle again. Goddamnit, this guy is turning me into a damn girlie girl. “Do you think anyone else knows about me?”

He shakes his head. “No, I asked my buddy Sam, who works at the front counter, and he didn’t know what I was talking about.”

“Will he say anything?”

“Nah, we’re friends.”

This relaxes me. “So you’re a mechanic then?” I ask, realizing I’ve been doing nothing but talk about myself.

“Yep,” he replies, wiping his mouth and sitting back in his seat, his long legs spread wide, his big feet taking up all the space between our chairs. “I started in bodywork, paint and some design stuff, but I got tired of wearing the gear, so I went back to school for mechanics. It’s a good gig. Decent pay. Easy hours. No weekends.”

“I know,” I groan obnoxiously. “I hate that you guys close on the weekends.”

That makes him chuckle. “Don’t you ever take a break?”

I shake my head. “I’m a workaholic. It’s the book business. The faster you release, the more you stay in people’s minds. I was lucky to have my first book break out, and I don’t want to lose that momentum.”

He nods thoughtfully. “That’s why you work through lunch.”

I shrug. “That and sometimes I forget to eat.”

He huffs out a polite laugh and adds, “Well, I think it’s incredible that you write. I can’t even think of enough words for my weekly email to my parents.”

“Where do your parents live?”

“Utah. I was born and raised there. I came to Boulder for college. Well, tech school, I should say.”