Page 34 of Sweet Caroline
“Well, it was mainly my dad,” I say quietly, as if that makes it any better.
Mom had objected to the arrangement at first, but Dad had gotten his way in the end—as he always does. His skill in debate, a politician’s bread and butter, wins him just as many private arguments as public ones. Mom’s developed a resigned kind of acceptance over the years; it’s easier to let him have his way than make a fuss. If I’m honest, maybe I’ve done the same thing.
“The breakup came at a bad time for the campaign,” I explain, trying to justify it. “Dad needs us in his corner right now. All hands on deck, right? Even if it means putting up with some”—I search for the right words—“uncomfortable circumstances.”
Miles doesn’t look convinced.
“Anyway, I think that’s why I kind of… snapped. At the gallery. I know that sounds dramatic. But hearing Fletcher go on and on about all this time we needed to spend cozying up together to appease the press…” I trail off, gazing down at the gold brocade clutch in my lap. “It was too much. It had gone so far past uncomfortable for me. Honestly, it felt like torture.” With tentative hope, I look up. “And then you were?—”
“I was there,” he says, watching me carefully. “Like, I was conveniently nearby.”
“Yes.” When I realize how that sounds, my eyes fly wide. “I mean, no! You werethere, but that makes it seem like I would have roped in anyone within a twenty-foot radius.”
He meets my gaze in the dark, smirking slightly. “Is that not what you’re saying?”
“No! Of course not!”
He dips his head like he isn’t sure whether to be amused or what. “You sure?”
“Look,” I say, dropping my shoulders. “You wereniceto me.” Self-consciousness swelling in my chest, I throw a quick glance toward our driver, wondering how much he’s overhearing. “At the gym. I know we only talked for a few minutes, but we seemed to get along, right? And you told that weird guy off, explaining exactly why he was being a human nightmare. It was enough that I figured you probably weren’t gonna turn out tobea human nightmare.”
“Probably not a human nightmare,” he echoes, almost chuckling. “Should I put that on my resume, or?—?”
“Miles! Dang it! You know what I mean.”
He laughs. “Hold up. Did you just saydang it?”
“Yeah. So?”
He tilts his head, the orange glow from a streetlight passing over the crinkled corners of his eyes. “That’s adorably wholesome.”
I fail to suppress an eye roll. “But you get what I mean, right? You were— You felt… safe. Like a safe bet.”
“Okay,” he says carefully, like something clicks into place. “Good. Safe is… good.”
“It wasn’t only because you were there.” Unable to maintain eye contact with that admission hanging between us, I sit back in my seat, training my gaze out the window. “That said, I’m sure anyone within a twenty-foot radiuswouldhave been a betteroption than Fletcher. It’s apparently a pretty low bar.” I huff out a breath. “Guess I really know how to pick ’em.”
“Caroline,” he says, waiting until I turn to meet his eyes. “I barely know that dick, but from what I saw and what you told me? It’s time to raise the fucking bar.”
I smile, still feeling a little uncertain.
“And, uh, I’m more of a high-jump guy, myself.” He tilts his head. “Maybe pole vault, if I’m feeling fancy.”
I laugh. “Well, this party is gonna be pretty fancy. Are you saying you’re gonna… pole vault it?”
“Okay,” he says with a lopsided grin, “that metaphor might have gotten away from me a bit.”
“I liked it.” Almost in wonder, I study Miles. There’s something fascinating about the way he puts me at ease. After Fletcher, being with a man who doesn’t keep me guessing is almost foreign. But it also feels a lot like relief. I’ve only sensed this kind of easy honesty from one man before, and he’s ninety-two and loves crossword puzzles.
“Look, I know we basically just met,” Miles says. “But I can definitely handle this fake boyfriend thing tonight. Hell, I look the part, right?” He throws his hands out at his sides. “I’m wearing my fancy pants and everything. Perfect for, uh, pole vaulting or whatever.” Laughing through the last words, he shrugs, then drops his voice lower. “I’m just talkin’ outta my ass here, but, point is, I’m up for this. So c’mon.” He holds out his pinkie. “Trust me.”
I stare at him in disbelief.
A pinkie promise? Seriously?
His brows shoot up. “What? You’ve never made a pinkie promise before?”
I scoff. “Of course I have. But I’m twenty-eight years old, Miles.”
