Page 95 of So Not My Thing
“He won’t mind?” Miles asked. “I got the feeling he didn’t like me.”
“He likes you fine,” I told him. “He’s protective, that’s all.” Miles and I hadn’t brought each other home to our families yet. On my side, it would provoke the kinds of loaded and uncomfortable questions even I didn’t know the answer to. I wouldn’t put it past my dad to straight up ask him what his intentions toward me were.
Which is why I hadn’t mentioned exactly who the new tenant was. They knew it was a jazz club. I just hadn’t told them it was Miles, and I’d dodged having to explain it when they’d been out of town for Miss Mary’s goodbye party.
My parents had left me to manage the building for over a year, focusing their time on multi-family residential units in and around Mandeville, a New Orleans suburb on the far side of Lake Ponchartrain. New Orleans wasn’t exactly a fast-paced city; people took their time here in a way they didn’t in most other big cities I’d visited, but my parents liked the even more low-key suburban pace.
I wasn’t trying to hide Miles from them, exactly. But they were going to be super protective on my behalf, having lived through theStarstruckfallout.
“I’m going to run into the office to work.” I gave Miles a quick kiss. “I’ll talk to Dylan and see what he thinks.”
On the personal side, the days had taken on a rhythm over the last two weeks, me starting mine downstairs until the regular renovation bustle took over and I headed out to work. I came home at the end of each workday to Miles waiting for me, pulling me in for a hug and a long kiss the second I walked in. Then he’d either coax me into singing something for him, or sometimes we’d go back to his place and hang out in his studio where he’d play something he was working on.
We ate dinner together most days too, sometimes cooking for each other, more often going out so he could “research” different chefs he and Jordan were considering. And before, after, and in between, there was so much making out.
Miles was becoming more familiar to me in a physical way as we learned each other, what made him growl low in his throat or close his arms around me so tight that it made it hard for me to breathe. Those moments also lit a fire low in my belly that raced out to every nerve ending.
If this was love, then I’d only ever felt twitterpated before. The rest of the room faded when our eyes locked, and when he sang to me, his voice alone made me boneless. He invented reasons to touch me, begged me for stories from all the years he hadn’t known me, sang the Usher lyrics to me softly every time he walked me to the door, but with a small change.I got it bad,he would sing. And I would smile and give him one last kiss before he left or I went home.
But that was the thing: the only time he ever mentioned his feelings was in his music, and even then, other than the Usher lyrics, it was never a song specifically to me. He showed me every day that he wanted to be with me. But he didn’t say, “I love you.” Was the music enough?
I didn’t say it either. Having my feelings splashed across tens of millions of screens when we were kids made it impossible for me to say the words first now. I needed it to be him.
We’d been officially together for all of two weeks. There was time. I didn’t need to worry about this. It would happen when it needed to. Besides, every day when I walked into the club after work, if Miles was at the piano, he’d stop whatever he was doing and play “She Don’t Know She’s Beautiful.” It was clearly for me, and I decided to hear them all that way, as if each song contained the words he meant to say to me.
“You excited?” I askedChloe when she walked into our living room two days later. Tonight was the first chef showcase.
“Low-key excited,” she said. “I do this a lot, so...”
“But how many times do you get to influence which chef a restaurant will hire?”
“I’m one of a bunch of votes tonight, Ellie. It’s not like they know I’m the Kitchen Saint. I’m sure Dylan’s opinion will count more.”
Miss Mary and Mr. Douglas were still off “gallivanting,” as she liked to hashtag her pictures, but Jerome had agreed to come. With Dylan, Chloe, Jordan and his wife, plus Aaron—unfortunately—there was a good-sized crew with trained New Orleans tastebuds.
“If only they did know,” I said. “Then your opinion would be the only one that mattered.”
“I would hate that,” she said, leading the way out of the apartment. “I value my anonymity like you value...”
“My what?”
“I’m trying to think of something you love as much as I love keeping my identity a secret.” I followed her down the stairs, and at the bottom, she announced, “Miles.”
“Miles what?”
“I love keeping my identity secret as much as you love Miles.”
“I don’t—”
But she held up her hand to cut off my half-hearted denial. “Don’t even try it. I won’t believe you. Now let’s get our grub on.”
We went in through the main entrance to give the auditioning chef her space. Everyone but Dylan was there. Tanya, the no-nonsense middle-aged restaurant manager they’d hired, had set up two tables for dining.
“This looks so good,” I said to Miles when he came to hug me. “I can’t believe how good it all looks together.” Tanya had used the linens and settings they’d be using for real when they opened for business.
“It does, doesn’t it?” He ran his eyes over everything. “I think this is going to work.”
“You better hope so,” Aaron said, passing us to get to his seat.
