Page 21 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
Throwing off the blanket from my legs, I drop my bare feet to the floor, and quietly shuffle to the door, pressing my ear against it. I hold my breath and listen, as one does when trying to be stealthy to thwart any untoward, unsuspecting hallway intruders.
The sound continues on repeat, this time a little louder. I peer out the peephole but see nothing other than beige hallway walls.
And then I hear it. A male voice, inaudible, but clearly in pain. And clearly a voice belonging to Miles Thatcher.
My fingers fumble to unlatch the three deadbolts. I remember at the last second to punch in the security code before swinging the door open and stepping into the hallway.
“I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” His voice shakes and wobbles, as if an old man on his death bed, the sorrow in his words squeezing my heart painfully.
I rush down the hallway, dropping to my knees next to Miles, whose head is bent so far forward in his chest it’s hidden in the fold of his legs. Instinctively, I throw my arms around his sunken form, cradling him into my breasts, feeling the sobs racking through his body.
“Miles, you’re okay. Whatever it is, you’ll be okay.” I promise without considering what could cause of this terrible, gut-wrenching sadness.
He shakes his head back and forth, at war with himself, muttering words and phrases that stab me in the heart.
“It’s Mel’s birthday. I miss my sister.” He sobs in my arms for long moments, grief pouring out of him.
As if just now realizing where he is or that he’s being held, he raises his head, eyes red-rimmed and barely slits, sweat and tears coating his face and temples. Our eyes meet when he turns his head, and he heaves a sigh—of relief? Gratitude?
Whatever I see in his eyes, it fills me with confidence, knowing I’m giving him what he needs at this moment. Offering him comfort and support in his time of need.
Stretching my legs out in front of me, I prod him with a nudge of my hand to lay his head down in my lap. There’s a moment of hesitation, but then Miles complies and finds a comfortable resting place in the cushion of my thighs.
I stroke my hand over his scalp, fingers gently massaging through his dark thick hair, slicking it back from his forehead so I can see the outline of his face. The perfect slope of his nose with a small scar at the bridge and his chiseled jawline that’s usually clenched in severe concentration. So far from the Miles I grew up with.
That Miles was a big goof who teased his sister and me mercilessly, keeping us in stitches with laughter. But looking at him now, the outward sadness stapled across his tear-stained face, I see no visual reminders of the boy I used to know. He’s either lost his way or hidden away deep inside him. Or, he’s just been replaced by a callous, gorgeous stuck-up bastard.
“I know who you are,” Miles mumbles accusingly out of the blue, scaring the shit out of me because I thought he’d fallen asleep from the way his breathing had evened out.
My mind reels. Does he finally remember who I am? That I was part of his sister’s life years ago, and by proxy, part of his?
I swallow, the lump lodging in my throat thickly, because I worry that he’ll be upset with me that I said nothing before now. That I’ve been hiding the fact that I know him.
“You do?” I ask, my voice reticent over what he might say.
But what he says doesn’t seem to reflect the truth at all. At least, not all of it.
He tries to sit up, pressing one palm to the floor and another on the top of my bare thigh, but seems to think better of it and lays back down with a plop.
“Yeah, you’re Ben’s cousin. I work with Ben.”
Wait, what?
Well, this is surprising and completely unexpected news. I mean, I know Miles is Graham and Soraya’s neighbor, but I didn’t know he works at Morgan Financial or that he knows my cousin, Ben.
“You work with Ben and Graham?”
He hums a response. “Mmm-hmm. I asked about you.”
Curiously, I bend at the waist, peering over to look at his face. Miles’s eyes are closed, and there’s a little sliver of a smile across his mouth. A thrill flutters in my belly, and I suppress a grin as I press back against the doorframe.
Miles asked about me. What does that mean? Is he interested in me? Does he like me? It feels relatively juvenile, but whatever the reason, Miles was curious enough to want to know about me to ask.
That makes me giddy beyond belief, and I want to know more.
“You did? Why? You don’t even like me. You certainly haven’t been very nice to me.” I can’t help but poke him in the shoulder with my finger. He groans and rolls forward.
I nearly jump out of my skin when I feel the barest of touches on my shin, his fingers feathering over my leg and then back down again, tracing a sensuous, invisible pattern.
