Page 42 of Stuck-Up Big Shot
I can only assume it’s Miles, even though I haven’t given him my number. He must have gotten it from Graham, or maybe even Ben.
Staring at the phone, I deliberate whether I should or shouldn’t reply. And if I reply, what I should say and do.
But he doesn’t give me a chance to answer because there’s a knock on the door.
“Sutton? Are you awake?”
Blackie trots to the door, sniffing at the base, wagging his white tail with excitement and then gives a bark of delight.
I give him a mutinous glare. “Traitor.”
Miles chuckles on the other side. “I can hear you, ya know.”
Much to my chagrin, my eagerness to see Miles beats out my determination to remain grounded in my anger, and I disarm the security systems and open the latches on the door, swinging it open.
Only to come face-to-face with a gigantic floral arrangement. It’s so big that it hides Miles’s face, which is too bad because I’d really like to see it.
“What’s this about?” I ask, peering around the bouquet to see the bluest of blue eyes and a humorous smile, and my heart stupidly speeds up.
“Granny once told me that men do dumbass things that make girls either spitting mad or brokenhearted sad.”
The mention of his grandmother has me wondering how she is doing. The last time I saw her was at Melodie’s funeral, and then she stopped by my graduation party that spring, in honor of Mel.
The scent of the fragrant flowers does nothing to compare to the tantalizing scent of a freshly showered Miles, which I catch a whiff of as he walks into the apartment, in search of somewhere to put down the bouquet.
Miles finds a spot on the counter, turns back around, and hangs his head in apology. He gives me a sorrowful hangdog look through his thick, dark lashes.
“And then Granny told me that there are only two ways a man can make it up to a woman he’s wronged. One is showing up with flowers”—he sweeps his hand back toward the arrangement, and the corner of his mouth curls up in a smug grin—“and the other is through a grand gesture.”
“Hmm,” I respond, crossing my arms over my chest, the move lifting my breasts, which grabs Miles’s attention. His lips part, and his gaze lands on my now pebbled nipples poking through my nightshirt before rising to meet my eyes. “And what grand gesture do you propose?”
I’ve never in my life seen Miles Thatcher nervous. He was and is the epitome of a confident male. But the slight quake of his voice conveys a very atypical lack of conviction.
“I want to take you out on a date.”
“Is there a question there?”
“Oops, yeah, sorry. Definitely out of my comfort zone here. But yes, there is a question in that statement.”
Miles takes two steps toward me. His trademark smile—that I know for a fact got him into a dozen different girls’ panties in high school—breaks across his face.
“Button,” he says, my nickname slipping from his tongue like sweet honey, thick and slow. “Will you go out with me, so I can prove that I’m not an ass all the time and that I can be a decent guy for you?”
He unwraps my arms, his knuckles accidentally brushing over my protruding nipples, causing an unladylike gasp to fall from my lungs. He offers me his hands, which I place mine in and he wraps them up. They’re warm and solid, and they tug me closer to him, so we are only a hair’s breadth apart. The air between us charges with static electricity, crackling with the intensity of the moment, bringing back that flame that only barely diminished last night.
Miles slips an arm around my back, his palm settling at the base of my spine and presses me into his body, eliminating any remaining space.
“What’s your answer, Button? Will you go out with me?”
If I could capture this moment and send it back in time to teenage Sutton, she still wouldn’t believe that Miles Thatcher was asking her out on a date.
The gorgeous, most sought-after boy in town, who only a select few were fortunate enough to gain his attention, is asking me out on a date. The girl who was always in his shadow and worshipped him from afar.
I wish I could torment him a little. But that’s not my style. I have no desire to play games or make him chase after me. Glancing at the flowers and then back into his dreamy-blue gaze, I tell him the God’s honest truth.
“Miles, I’ve been waiting to hear you ask that question my whole life. Yes, I’ll go out with you.”
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