Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

2. Miles

Chapter 2

Miles

Impartial.

Not among the feelings I’d prefer Georgia have about me. My list includes words like smitten. Enamored. Flat-out in love.

But I guess I’ve always been a dreamer.

This isn’t going the way I’d thought it might when I got the idea to ask her to go to the gala with me. I was supposed to be daring and blast through years of holding my tongue to tell the woman I’m crazy about that my feelings for her are more than just friendly. That I want her by my side at the awards ceremony because that way, even if I lose, I’ll still come out a winner.

Instead, she’s ready to bust out a PowerPoint presentation on why she’s my ideal matchmaker. My daring just went whoosh like it was blown out an airlock.

“I already know your likes and dislikes, so I can narrow down the best options.” She beams as if nothing could make her happier than sifting through my dating choices. “And we have two months before the gala, so if one doesn’t work out, we have time to try again.”

“So much confidence in me.”

Not that she should. I haven’t dated much in the last couple of years, but there’s a very specific reason for that.

Her .

“You know what I mean. True love might not strike right away. It might take two or three dates.”

Or five years working side by side.

I hired Georgia because she’s confident, outgoing, and has a genuine love of books. I honestly didn’t think she’d stick around long, given her degree in graphic design. But she’s stayed right here, and after a year or so, proved she has a brain for business as well as visuals. I’ve gone along with all of her plans to improve Dogeared and never regretted a single decision. She helped me expand the café from just a coffee counter to a pastry bar complete with a deluxe espresso machine. I helped her reupholster the plush chairs she found for the reading spaces. We spent one wild Monday repainting the whole place a rich, inviting hunter green.

And somewhere along the way, we moved from largely indifferent coworkers to mutually invested teammates to close friends who lean on each other through our best and worst moments.

With a side of unrequited love on my part.

I close my laptop and face her. The wide, hopeful grin she flashes twists right to the center of my heart. I’ve learned to live with the constant butterflies, but the longing ache in my chest is new. How can I miss someone who’s standing right in front of me?

I know before she ever finishes her sales pitch that I’m going to agree to her plans. I’d do anything for that smile. Even pretend I’m not in love with her.

“I kind of set up my brother and his wife, you know.” She sounds like she’s about to hand me a letter of recommendation. Georgia Donnelly, Matchmaker Extraordinaire .

“I know. You pretended I was sick.”

“And you didn’t even have to fake anything! It worked out perfectly.”

She’s just too adorable, even when she’s scheming against all my most secret hopes.

I don’t read much romance, but Georgia does. Through years of listening to her rave about her favorite books, I’ve learned a few things.

The two sexiest words in the English language are “You’re mine.”

Rolling shirtsleeves is required.

And matchmaking never, ever goes to plan.

“Acting as your boss’s matchmaker probably violates some kind of OSHA regulation.”

That earns an eye roll.

“Now you want to play the boss card?”

She’s right. It’s too late to draw that line in the sand. I can’t enjoy movie nights at her apartment with her cuddled next to me and then try to claim something goes against our professional relationship. That went out the window the first time we hugged and I realized I never wanted to let her go.

“It was worth a shot.”

“Nice try. What’s your next move, smart guy?”

“Um, evasive actions?”

She darts her shoulders from side to side. “I’m too speedy for you.”

I laugh, but the dread forming a knot in my stomach is hard to ignore. “Why do you want me to have a date to this so badly?”

I’m stalling. Her reason doesn’t matter. I’m going to crumple like a spaceship succumbing to a black hole either way.

Theoretically. No one really knows what happens inside a black hole.

Not the point .

She stills, and her smile loses its challenge. It’s just bright, sweet Georgia. “Because you’re a wonderful guy, and more people should know that.”

Under any other circumstances, those words would knock me out.

She takes my hand like she’s making a vow. It twists the ache in my chest even deeper, but I hold on tight.

“I shouldn’t be the only one lucky enough to keep you company.”

She’s not, but I appreciate what she’s saying.

“And we really need to break the unlucky streak in this store. Getting you a girlfriend would be a big win for Dogeared’s morale.”

Both of our other employees were recently dumped. Hannah and her boyfriend ended their engagement, so she quit to regroup—I’ve been picking up her hours in the store ever since. And Arlo’s been a sad, mopey mess since his breakup, living in a bubble of the most depressing country music he can stream. His shifts change the whole aesthetic of the store from light and cozy academia to foreboding bookshop of cursed souls.

But I focus on her more troubling point. “I thought you wanted to find me a date to the gala, not a girlfriend.”

It’s semantics, but hey—we work in a bookshop. I can quibble over word choice.

Georgia just grins. “One naturally leads to the other.”

“I love your optimism.” Among other things.

“I can tell you’re leaning toward letting me be your matchmaker.” She squeezes my hands tighter, pleading with me.

I don’t bother asking why she doesn’t try to break Dogeared’s employee unlucky-in-love streak herself. It’s the same reason I haven’t been more upfront with my feelings for her. Georgia is a firm believer in romance—as long as it’s fictional. Bring her a book with a couple on the cover, and she’s ready to fall in love.

But a real, living, breathing person? She loses all interest. She’s gone on fewer dates than I have these last few years, and that’s saying something. I can’t count how many times I’ve heard her say, “The only good boyfriend is a book boyfriend.”

Last I checked, I’m fully non-fictional.

Letting her set me up goes against my ultimate goals…but maybe I can still salvage this.

“I’ll agree to let you set me up.”

She squeals, bouncing on the balls of her feet.

“On one condition,” I add. She sobers, waiting. “If the dates don’t work out, you’ll go to the Andromeda Awards ceremony with me.”

She laughs, patting me on the shoulder like I’m talking nonsense. “Trust me. You won’t need me to be your backup gal.”

Georgia Donnelly is the main character in the love story I want to write, and she has no idea. If only I could admit to her she’s anything but my second choice.