Page 51 of Sweet Caroline
Cage the beast? God, no.
Because that kiss released something inside me thathadbeen caged, cowed, and stuffed down for far too long. Was it messy, foolish, and wrong? Most definitely. But it was also incredibly freeing. I liked tasting freedom. And, more than anything, I want another taste.
But he’s not dating right now. And neither am I. Although, I have to admit… dinner and a movie aren’t really top of mind.
“Caroline!” a familiar deep voice calls out from the street.
Startled, I snap my head up to find Miles grinning at me through the open window of his silver pickup. “Hey!”
Heat flushes my cheeks, probably from the small jolt of adrenaline. Yes, definitely the adrenaline. Nothing to do with that backwards ball cap he’s wearing or the boyish smirk on his face. Tearing his gaze from mine, he braces an arm behind the passenger-side headrest and throws the truck in reverse. The way he parallel parks in front of me in one smooth, effortless maneuver has me equal parts jealous and turned on.
Why was that sexy? Do I have a competence kink?
Before he rolls up the window, I step closer, offering him the bundled hoodie. “You forgot this.”
“Oh, uh, yeah.” He places it on the passenger seat. “Thanks. It’s um… It’s my favorite one. But you didn’t have to— You could’ve held onto it. Like, for a while or whatever. No big deal.”
I don’t quite know how to respond, and a loaded pause hangs in the air before he finally seems to snap out of it and climbs out. As he rounds his truck, I take a steadying breath.
“You look nice,” he says as he hops up on the curb. “I mean, you always look nice, but?—”
“But?” I raise my brows, silently beckoning him to continue.
“But nothing,” he says. “I like your dress.”
“Oh, thanks.” I glance down at my open wool peacoat and the plaid pinafore dress peeking out underneath, smoothing it under my palms. “This one’s vintage, actually.”
“You always wear such cool outfits. Makes me feel like I should’ve tried a bit harder.” He runs a hand over his stomach, looking down at his clothes.
“Well,” I say, “I think you’re definitely passing the taco date vibe check.”
“Yeah?” He cocks his hip and aims a model-like smolder somewhere into the street beside us. “Like what you see, huh?” He bites his lip.
I suppress a laugh and narrow my eyes in thought, scanning his black hoodie and dark jeans. “Mmm, yes. I’m getting comfort, I’m getting casual…”
He tosses his head and gives me a goofy, over-the-top pose, complete with peace sign and broody pout.
Playing along, I ask, “So, what inspired this ensemble, Mr. Sharpe?”
“Hunger,” he deadpans, popping his hip to the other side. “For tacos.”
“Very nice. Very nice.” I nod sagely, struggling to keep a straight face. “And who are you wearing tonight?”
“I don’t even know, actually.” His eyes dance as he makes a grab over his shoulder, wrenching his hoodie around to check the label—only to drop it when he doesn’t find one. “Shit, yanked the tag out. I mean…” He clears his throat, all casual nonchalance as he tugs his hoodie back into place. “It’s an unknown designer. You wouldn’t have heard of them. They’re, like, so edgy they don’t have a name yet.”
“Ooh, underground. I like it.” I laugh through the last words, both of us dropping the act.
His goofball routine mesmerizes me for a moment; there’s something refreshing about being in the company of a man who doesn’t need to wear a mask of pretentious seriousness at all times.
“If any photographers are around tonight, I’m sure we just confused the fuck outta them,” he says, looking amused as he scans up and down the street.
But the reminder that someone could be watching us has our smiles waning.
For a second, I think Miles might step closer or kiss me—for the cameras, maybe—but the moment passes and he stuffs his hands in his pockets.
I swallow my disappointment, knowing it’s ridiculous.
“You hungry?” he asks.
