I take a deep breath, and then I tell him the truth. “The woman I’m going to marry, that’s who.”
I let my manager rant for a while and keep my eyes on Cecily’s house. I’ll follow her to her next destination, whatever that may be. A frat party? A nightclub?
I stare and stare, for who knows how long. Lights go on and off, then another one, and then total darkness. I wait, expecting her to come outside dressed for a night out, but she never does. She’s turned in for the night.
If she won’t accept my offer of dinner, then at least I can make sure she’s safe, and that’s all I need for today.
I stay for a couple more minutes until I’m satisfied the neighborhood is quiet. Then I walk back to campus for my car and drive myself to the hotel, my manager still yelling at me through the phone.
Chapter Seven
Cecily
One thing Milo needs to learn: just because he’s famous doesn’t make it less terrifying when he approaches out of nowhere in the coffee aisle at the QuikTrip.
While I’m trying to decide how I want my cheap gas-station caffeine delivered into my veins—breakfast blend or French vanilla—that oversized chef startles me out of my socks.
“Can I buy you a coffee?”
My heart leaps into my throat, and I spin around, heart pounding, to see Milo standing behind me.
“What the fuck! You scared the shit out of me.”
He winces and looks sheepish. “I apologize. I thought you saw me.”
With my hand on my chest, I say, “I might not need coffee after that adrenalin rush. What are you doing here?”
He smiles and lifts one shoulder. “It’s a nice city with nice people, and I didn’t want to leave without convincing you to try my food again. So, I decided to stick around.” He says this casually, like someone who gets to do whatever he wants, whenever he wants.
He follows this up with a wink. I look away and focus on the tiny creamers.
“You are really trying to get me to rewrite my article, aren’t you?”
“No,” he says, sounding genuine.
I move aside to let Milo fill his own cup as I watch. One sugar, two creams. Despite myself, I make a mental note of it. “No? Are you sure?”
Milo shakes his head, snaps a lid on his cup, and looks down at me with a serious expression I’ve not seen on him until now. “I’m sorry if it wasn’t clear. I wanted to ask you out.”
I blink back. This can’t be happening. Did some witch back in the day curse all the women in our family to fall for older men? I cannot explain these butterflies in my stomach at the prospect of having dinner with this man. I’m 22.
He’s got to be at least 40. And he’s into me. Yet, last time I checked, I’m not a princess. “You said you wanted to give me another chance. That implies you want me to reconsider writing a second review after eating there again.”
“Hang on,” he says, his face breaking into a smile that crinkles his eyes. God, why does he have to be so big and so cute? Pick one! “It’s been very well documented that I don’t give a fuck about food critics.”
His wording makes me a slight bit defensive. So he doesn’t actually give a fuck about me? I sip my coffee and try to give him the benefit of the doubt. He did say on the phone yesterday that I made him nervous. “And yet here you are,” I say with a smirk.
He’s so polite, paying for my coffee, insisting on picking up some donuts, too, and holding the door open for me as we leave the QuikTrip.
My usual self hates all this chivalrous crap. But my traitorous stomach and my butterflies tell another story.
“So what is it you want? Just dinner?” I smile slyly as we sit facing each other at a cafe table outside, me bracing against the chill and Milo looking about two sizes too big for the tiny round industrial seats. “We’re having coffee now. What is it you really want from me?”
Another severe look from him has my eyes darting away and my hands diving for one of the donuts he offers. “I want to date you,” he says.
I shake my head. “Dude. How old are you?”
“I’m 40.”