Page 65 of You're The One
Even if she felt it, too, is that even possible? After tonight, it sure as hell doesn’t feel like it.
And if I’m honest, maybe it never was. Not with Mia. Not when she has been completely, undeniably off-limits from the start.
Thanks, Logan.
Which is why I need to figure this out.
Whateverthisis, I’ve got a problem. A slight—okay, massive—one. But not a new one.
Mia Madonna Matthews has always been a problem. But now it’s for a completely different reason.
I think I like her.
Like,reallyfucking like her.
It used to be her sass. Her snark. The way she’d argue with me just for the hell of it. It drove me insane and entertained me in equal measure.
But now?
It’s her smile. Her laugh. The way her eyes soften when she’s not trying to be difficult.
Fuck, I even like when sheisdifficult.
It’s the way her voice lowers when she’s being honest. The little wisps of hair that escape her ponytail and float around her face in the breeze. The leggings that hug her long, strong legs. That T-shirt she wears that always slips off one shoulder.
She drives me crazy.
I’m screwed.
Out of all the beautiful, sweet, intelligent women this show has offered me, she’s the one I’m falling for. The one I can’t have.
Because, of course she is.
I glance at the alarm clock on my nightstand. 3:30 a.m. Less than two hours until I see her.
The thought of our morning walk—my favorite part ofeveryday—is the only thing that finally pulls me into a restless sleep.
The next morning, she doesn’t show up.
When she’s still not there the second day, I start to lose my shit.
Bodhi swings by to brief me on today’s date with Summer. I try to get information about Mia out of him, but he only shrugs and continues on rambling about the itinerary. I’m barely listening—something about making up for the time she missed while she was “sick”—until he mentions we’re meeting on location. Which means no stopping at the mansion. No chance to casually check in.
That seals it. I need a plan.
The first excuse that comes to mind? Brunch and coffee for the girls. Thoughtful. Harmless. Totally reasonable.
Since I don’t have access to a car—God, I can’t wait to get back to Chicago and behind the wheel—I walk to the same café Mia and I went to earlier this week.
I’m the only person there. Probably because it’s barely past seven. As the barista swings around, I greet her, recognizing her from the last time Mia and I were here.
“Oh, hey, it’s you again. Where’s your girlfriend?” she asks, sounding cheerful.
I wish I knew, is my first thought. I don’t immediately notice anything off with the rest of her statement. But I don’t have time to dwell on it, too focused on getting to the house as soon as possible.
I rattle off the order: six coffees, assorted pastries, and one weirdly specific French toast latte. Plus, a lemon blueberry muffin.
I don’t realize I’ve ordered Mia’s separately until the cashier repeats it back to me.
