Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

6. Georgia

Chapter 6

Georgia

It turns out the bookshelf I was so happy to score for free is haunted. It makes a terrible creaking noise every time the Lazy Susan base moves. Which is, sadly, the whole point of the bookshelf.

Miles drove me to its former residence, and we maneuvered it in and out of his station wagon, up three flights of stairs at my apartment complex, and finally onto my balcony. It’s not very heavy, but it’s awkward to carry, and we’re both a little sweaty after all that wrestling.

With the bookshelf. Duh.

We get it situated on a tarp I set out here for it. I’m not dumb enough to strip the bookshelf’s old paint in my apartment. I have no intention of passing out from toxic fumes.

Miles spins it again, prompting the terrible screech. I put my hand over his and pull him away slowly.

“Don’t do that.”

He chuckles. “Now we know why it was a freebie.”

“WD-40 should do it.” I hope. I can probably take the base apart and inspect it, but my handiness generally stops at the surface level. If paint can’t fix it, I probably can’t either .

“I’m looking forward to seeing what you do with it.”

“Everyone’s got high expectations today,” I grumble as we go back inside.

“Wait.” He stops me with a gentle hand on my arm. “I didn’t mean that to sound critical.”

His immediate and unnecessary apology makes my shoulders sag. He’s not being the jerk—I am. “Sorry. It’s not about you. My dad left me a very…detailed voicemail this afternoon.”

Miles’s gaze turns hard. “Do I want to know the subject?”

I’m sure he can guess by now.

“My negligible career ambitions, my reckless financial instability, how unrealistic it is to live off my art, how unwise I am to keep working for a business that’s constantly courting bankruptcy.” At least my dad’s efficient. He hit all his favorite talking points in one message. “And that part’s completely untrue. Dogeared is doing amazing.”

“Slights against the bookstore are the least of my concerns.” Miles tips his head closer until I meet his eyes. “He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”

I love the vehemence in his usually calm voice. It’s a nice contrast to the condescension that rang out loud and clear in my dad’s.

“He’s not totally wrong, though. I don’t have huge ambitions. I just want to make art and read books and be happy.” I try for a laugh, but it comes out a snort. Like even I don’t believe I can achieve that much.

“You should quit the bookstore.”

My mouth drops open, but I snap it shut and squirm out of his grasp to walk across my living room. This again? “Miles Forrester, stop trying to fire me.”

His mouth twitches into something like a smile. “I would never fire you. But you should quit so you can make covers full time.”

My heart squeezes. That’s the job description I’ve been working toward these last few years: Georgia Donnelly, Illustrator . But I can’t pretend my dad doesn’t know what he’s talking about. He didn’t build his seven-figure company without learning a few things about smart business choices.

Going totally out on my own is reckless. I want to…but I don’t want it to fast-track me to debt and disappointment. And I’ve got this troubling fear that the second my art becomes my entire job, it will lose its magic.

And anyway, I’ve invested a lot of time and energy at Dogeared. I can’t just abandon Miles to go do my own thing.

“Are you saying you don’t need me?” I cock a hip against my kitchen counter because I know I have him. Not to brag, but he couldn’t have breathed new life into that store without me.

His mouth flattens into a thin line. “I would never say that.”

“See?” I toss a hand up at him. “As long as you need me, I’m staying.”

He slowly approaches me across the room. “Okay. You’re staying. But try to put your dad’s opinions out of your head.”

Some of my swagger fades. “It isn’t easy.”

“I know. I wish…” He moves one hand like he’s going to touch my face or brush my hair out of my eyes— something —but stops himself. He balls his hand into a fist and drops it to his side. “Your father should support and encourage you. He should always have your back, no matter what. He should be defending you, not cutting you down.”

“Maybe in a parallel universe.” I try to exhale out all my frustration, but it doesn’t work. I hate that Dad’s low opinions still get to me even after years of telling myself I don’t care. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t complain when you…”

It’s unfair Miles had such a great dad but so little time with him. I sound like a brat whining “my daddy’s not being nice to me” when Miles would do anything for one more minute with his.

Drunk drivers are the literal worst.

“We don’t do that. We don’t need to compare our past hurts.”

“I know. You’re right.” He’s told me that every time it comes up, but I still feel like a jerk. “Can I have a hug?”

This look comes across Miles’s face as though he’s the one who’s being comforted—it’s tender and sweet and just makes me want to hug him even more than usual.

He doesn’t say anything, but he wraps me in his arms. I burrow in, sighing against him. Sometime in the last three years, I learned what a great hugger he is and developed a slight addiction. He holds me close like he’ll never let go—none of this “loose hands, almost ready to pull away” nonsense some guys do. He goes all in for as long as I need.

I take slow breaths, safe in my cocoon, and try to forget Dad’s message. Miles’s heartbeat at my ear soothes me until I feel like myself again. I hold on even longer, soaking in the goodness. I have so few high-quality huggers in my life. I don’t give up the experience easily.

But eventually, I let him go. I can’t use my boss/best friend’s hugs as free therapy forever.

Or can I?

No.

“Want to see my latest cover?”

His half-smile is a sparkler dancing around in my chest.

“Always.”

I lead him into my living room, and he takes a seat on my couch. I grab my tablet from my bedroom, and when I return, he’s glancing around at my decor he missed when we fumbled through with the bookshelf.

“You haven’t seen the full autumn glory yet, have you? ”

His eyebrows hitch up as he scans the room. “It might be even more glory than last year.”

My living room looks like it should be on a fall candle label—cozy throw blankets, rich plaids in browns and reds, natural wreaths dotted with leaves faux and real. My orange Pyrex casserole dishes sit out on the kitchen counter next to a giant ceramic walnut cookie jar. And everything smells like apples and cinnamon from the secret surprise I baked earlier.

“You know me. I don’t do understated.”

I flop down next to him on the couch and pull up the cover I’m almost ready to send to the author for approval. It shows a couple holding hands on a gingham blanket next to a lakeside. I put a lot of detail into this one and probably spent more time perfecting the trees and the braid in her hair than I should have. But illustrating soothes me almost as well as hugging Miles does.

Dealing with authors doesn’t always have the same result, but most of my clients are great.

“Your covers get better and better.” He’s carefully holding the tablet as though he could break it, his eyes roving over the illustration to take in every last blade of grass and blanket tassel. “I’m in awe of your talent.”

My fingers brush his as I pull the tablet from him. “Says the guy who writes whole books.”

He doesn’t say anything because why would he? He’d never respond with, “Yeah, I’m pretty great, aren’t I?” Even though he is. His brain is full of spaceships and pirates and renegades and the most wonderful space opera ever.

I set the tablet aside and take a deep breath. I’ve been as patient for as long as I possibly can in one afternoon. We had a job to do earlier, but now I can’t avoid the elephant trampling around in the room.

“I’m trying to be normal about this, Miles, but…you’re torturing me. ”

His eyebrows twitch in the center, drawing closer like they’re seeking comfort in each other. He swallows hard. “I am?”

“You let Captain Aster get kidnapped?” I unleash the reader beast, practically launching myself at him, even though I can’t get much closer. “Kidnapped! And his old commander surrendered to try to rescue him and threw himself in front of blaster fire and it didn’t even work ? Do you want to give me a heart attack?”

He looks unaccountably pleased with himself for putting one of my favorite characters ever into mortal peril. “So you’re enjoying the book?”

“I’m miserable. I’ve had trouble sleeping. I can’t think about anything else. Obviously I’m enjoying the book.”

A huge grin breaks across his face. “Glad to hear I’ve got your approval.”

“Five-star review to come.” My enthusiasm fades somewhat. “But I’m getting nervous you’re going to kill off Captain Aster as a full-circle, ‘mercenary sacrifices himself for the greater good’ plot point. And I do not endorse that. He needs to retire and live happily ever after with his second in command, even though it’s going to take him another ten years to admit he loves her.”

His expression doesn’t change. “No spoilers.”

“Please let him at least kiss his second. Just once, softly, before he dies saving his crew from an exploding nebula.”

Laughter rumbles through him. “Maybe you should write the books. You’re full of ideas.”

“Nah. I just know my tropes. Want to stay for dinner?”

“Sure.”

I drag myself off the couch and head for the kitchen. “How about ramen?”

“Sounds great. Just tell me what you want me to do.”

Magnolia Ridge isn’t exactly a hotbed of vegetarian dining options, so when we discovered we both avoid eating meat, we immediately banded together. We share recipes and swap reviews of various faux meats, often making meals together when we’re hanging out. With me in charge of the broth and Miles on veggie duty, we get the ramen whipped up in no time.

We take our bowls to my table and get comfortable. The miso soup and ramen are exactly what I needed on this cloudy fall day. It’s not really fall in central Texas yet, and most days still creep into the mid-eighties, but I’ll take it. We talk over dinner—a small thing really, but some days it feels like a gift.

Sam lived with me for a few months after he came back to town two years ago. Since he moved out to be with Harper, it’s easy to forget just how comforting it can be to have someone else in the apartment with me. I don’t mind my own company, but there’s such a thing as getting bored with yourself.

“I read that getting nominated for an Andromeda Award can boost a book onto The New York Times Bestseller list.” I try to sound casual, but I’m nothing close. Never am.

He blinks at me over his soup. “You’ve been doing a lot of research lately.”

“I’m excited for you. I’ve never been so invested in characters in a series before.” Even if now, I’m mildly terrified my favorite anti-hero will wind up dead by the end of it. His death had better be extra noble. And his second had better cry over his body in a big dramatic scene.

“Not even your romances? You get pretty caught up in them.”

It’s a polite way of saying I obsess over my couples. I accept that.

“I might love the characters, but there’s usually less stress in those. I’m always guaranteed a happy ending.” I stare hard at him.

He just stares back .

“Sure would be nice to know all the characters will wind up safe and sound in the end, right?” I add a wink as I get up to clear our bowls away.

That earns a short laugh. “I think you would eviscerate me if I actually spoiled the book for you.”

“It would be so painful too.” I come back from the kitchen with the Dutch apple pie I baked this morning. I set it in front of him like it’s his birthday and we’re ready to light the candles.

Shoot. I should have got candles.

“What’s this?” he asks.

“I suspect you still have some celebrating to do. It’s for Miles Forrester, Andromeda Award nominee, writer genius, best boss ever, esquire, and such and such, in perpetuity, yada yada.”

He stares up at me, a slow smile spreading across his face like the brightest comet streaking across the night sky. “I’m honored. Thank you.”

In typical Miles fashion, he’s making me feel like the one who deserves the accolades and the celebratory pie. I curtsy like a goof and serve up slices for us.

He takes his first bite and groans his approval. “This is so good, Georgia.”

I’m ready to do a happy dance in my chair. Success ! His mom used to own a bakery in town—impressing him with pastries is a big deal.

“If you’re not going to promise me that Captain Aster and his second fly off into the sunset, then I guess we’d better talk about your happily ever after.”

Some of his pie delight fades. “Terrible transition.”

“ Perfect transition. I really do have a short-list of candidates and ideas for potential first dates. Do you want to go over them, or do you want to be surprised?”

His expression falls as though I offered to stab him in the heart. The hurt look in his eyes winks out my eagerness. Like a lot of things in my life, just because I’m excited about something doesn’t mean anyone else shares my enthusiasm.

“I’m sorry,” I say, easing off the pushiness. “Do you really not want to date anyone? Maybe you’re…demisexual or something? I don’t want to force you into a situation that would make you truly uncomfortable. The whole point was to try to bring more happiness into your life, not less.”

I really do have good intentions, but none of that matters if I’m actually hurting him in the end. I would never do that.

“Sometimes I get over-excited and do my best impression of a steamroller.” He knows that, but it bears repeating. I put my hand over his where it rests on the table. “I’ll let it go if you’re just not interested in dating.”

He loops his thumb over my fingers, locking me in. His eyes never break from mine. Everything inside me stills as though I have more riding on his answer than a few names on my Notes app.

“I am interested in dating,” he finally says.

Relief floods through me, and I bust out a stupid grin.

“I don’t think I’m demisexual, but I haven’t thought about it much. Sometimes sparks hit right away. Other times…it’s a slow-burning ember that grows into an inferno as friendship develops into something deeper.”

Oh. It’s suddenly really warm in here. Why am I wearing a sweater when it’s almost eighty-five degrees out? I let go of him and wipe my clammy hand on my jeans.

He flexes his fingers. Double oh . Did he feel the clamminess too? So gross.

I force a laugh. “See? You’re a romantic at heart. You just need a little push.”

“You’re a romantic, too, but you don’t date either. Maybe you need a push too. ”

I hitch a shoulder. “Classic trust issues, I guess. That’s why I prefer my men fictional.”

“Right,” he says, his tone flat. “Your special ops guys.”

“Aw, you remember.” Of course he does. Miles remembers everything.

“You’ve mentioned them once or twice.”

“That’s what I like. A strong, capable hero ready to rescue me when I get kidnapped by my brother’s drug gang friends.”

He laughs softly. “I didn’t know Sam had a dark side.”

“There’s always a reason for some light kidnapping and a guns-blazing rescue.”

“That’s what you’re waiting for? A hero to sweep you off your feet?”

It sounds ridiculous when he says it straight out like that. Is it so wrong to want to be protected and cherished and loved so totally that all my broken little pieces fit back together? I’m not naive enough to think I could have that in real life. I just want a little slice of vicarious love to get me through.

“For now, I’ll be happy enough to see you go on dates,” I tell him.

“Your priorities confuse me.”