Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

16. Georgia

Chapter 16

Georgia

I’m such a good friend. I not only set Miles up with a woman who’s absolutely perfect for him in every way, now I’m helping him pick out what he’s going to wear for his date. Because we’re friends.

Even if, for a minute there during book club, I thought about abandoning the whole project. For a brief, agonizing moment, I considered keeping him to myself and not setting him up with anyone at all. But how selfish would that be? I made a promise to my best friend—and even if he’s somewhat hesitant, it’s clear he’s interested in having a relationship. I can’t just back out on it because I’m feeling ways . Ways I can’t quite define and don’t want to look at too closely.

Instead of examining my feelings about Miles, I’m examining his collection of books in his living room. Well, collection is the wrong word. Hoard is more like it. He’s got a wall of bookshelves stuffed floor to ceiling with classics and contemporaries, hardbacks and paperbacks, new and very well used.

His apartment smells of this delicious mix of paperback books, flour, and coffee. It’s like the bookstore, but with an undercurrent that’s all Miles—something crisp and green. It’s probably just a really nice soap, but romances have addled my brain, and all I can think about is wet clover and sun-warmed mint.

Most of his books fall into the science fiction and fantasy categories, but he’s got a few here and there in other genres. I smile over a couple of my rom-com recommendations tucked away among the grittier works. Action figures from his favorite movies dot the shelves like they’re doing their own exploring, and he’s got a few mementos on display. A ticket stub from a truly terrible movie we saw together in the spring. A Hot Wheels version of the Muppets Electric Mayhem bus I gave him for Christmas. A couple of Rubik’s cubes he’s determined to figure out how to do.

A framed print of a cover I illustrated last year is propped on one shelf. I pick it up to get a better view of the couple—they’re both holding books and gazing at each other like they just figured something out. It was supposed to be their “aha” moment. The author really loved it.

“Why this one?” I call. Miles is in his bedroom sorting through clothing options. He’s grudgingly providing a fashion show for me, but I’m about five minutes away from going through his closet myself.

He joins me in the living room wearing a gray thermal henley and gray jeans. The shirt’s not quite fitted to his lean frame, but it fits him well, casual without being “graphic tee” casual. I walk closer and run both my hands from his shoulders down his arms, loving the softness of his shirt and admiring the way it fits.

For science . Because that’s what friends do .

“Why this one what?” he asks.

I tear my gaze from the way his shirt hugs his shoulders and gesture at the print. “Why that cover? It’s not the first cover I did, and it’s definitely not my best.”

His gaze drifts to the shelf and back. Holds on me. “It reminds me of us.”

“Us? It’s not us.”

“I think it looks like us.” His voice is soft and low and ever so slightly amused.

Sure, Miles and I were sort of on my mind when I illustrated it, but it’s not us , exactly. Just…our vibe together. The way we kind of matched the character descriptions and the close friendship they had as coworkers.

Oh, shoot. It’s us .

I illustrated us as a couple who fall in love working together. That’s…I’m not sure what to call that. Small step down from creepy, big step up from impartial friend.

“Well. You know. Art is up for interpretation.” I give a weak laugh, and then, because I’ve lost my mind, I run my hand along his sleeve again. Indulge in tracing the softness of the fabric, and the shape of his muscles underneath. I could touch his shirt all day.

“What do you think of this one?” he asks, indicating his outfit.

Clearly, I love it. I can’t stop touching it. But that might lead to Josie touching it.

“You shouldn’t wear it. It’s a little too…” I want to say flattering, but that makes no sense. Obviously, I want it to flatter him. Why else am I here? It just doesn’t have to flatter him quite this much. “Too plain. I want you to knock Josie’s socks off.”

I wince, considering the context. “I mean, I don’t think you should really take her socks off. Not that socks are the kind of thing that come off on a first date. I don’t know when you typically take a woman’s socks off. Her socks should definitely stay on the whole time. ”

Shut up, Georgia.

His mouth quirks. “So, should I or should I not remove her socks at the Harvest Festival?”

I lightly shove his shoulder. “Go change.”

“Any suggestions?”

“Maybe your, uh…dark maroon sweater? That one looks really good on you.”

His mouth tips into a smile. “Yeah?”

“Yeah.” I swallow because my throat is suddenly Sahara dry. “It brings out the green in your eyes.”

“I didn’t know that.”

We’re standing so close, and he’s speaking so low, you’d think we were talking about something even cozier than soft sweaters.

“It’s my favorite of yours. It makes all the green flecks in your eyes brighter. Tiny emeralds in a sea of amber.”

He looks immensely proud of that description. “That’s poetic.”

I’m close enough to see those flecks, and I swear they all grow brighter.

“It’s because I’m in a writer’s apartment.”

“I didn’t know it worked like that.”

“The creativity is in the air here. Like pollen. Or pet dander.”

I really need to stop talking. And looking. Talking and looking are a bad combination.

“I feel like I should vacuum.” He inhales slowly. Probably to prove that his apartment is safe from pet dander. It’s not like he’s trying to smell me . “I’ll go change.”

Good. Great. He returns to his bedroom, and even though I’m tempted to follow him and supervise his selection, it’s for the best if I stay out here. Things are weird between us today. I’m sure he can handle picking out a sweater for a date.

A date I set up. Because I’m just that good of a friend .

I slump onto his desk chair. He’s got a simple writing desk with a wide drawer in the base and storage cubbies on the top. I run my fingers over the worn desktop as though I really can absorb his creative inspiration by touch. It’s littered with sticky notes and pencils, with a small stack of writing craft books on one of the upper shelves.

I flip through the plain spiral notebook in the center of the desk. His neat handwriting fills the pages, becoming cramped and frantic in places as though he couldn’t keep up with his own thoughts. I love how he can bring whole galaxies to life in his mind. His creativity just blows me away.

Something that looks like my name catches my eye, and I flip back to try to find it. Why would my name be in his idea notebook? Maybe I’m seeing things, but it looked exactly like?—

“No spoilers.”

I jolt and close the notebook. I stand to prove I’m not snooping, even though I totally was.

Miles isn’t wearing the maroon sweater. It’s possibly worse. He’s got on jeans and a thin navy-blue cardigan buttoned over a white dress shirt. Both are rolled nearly to his elbows, exposing the white cuffs and—this is the part that’s making my stomach squirm—his forearms.

Why is that so attractive? Romance novels always mention forearms like they’re some universal aphrodisiac. Hands are obvious, and shoulders or biceps can be nice, but forearms? It sounds so ridiculous…until you’re presented with two prime specimens.

I probably should not be objectifying my friend so shamelessly.

He endures my silent scrutiny, but then he decides to murder me. He slips his hands into his front jeans pockets. He’s so cute it hurts. His shy professor look is a hundred tiny, adorable daggers piercing my heart .

My eyes skate up to his. If I open my mouth, I’ll probably keep spouting nonsense about him, so I stay quiet and just enjoy looking.

“I decided to save the maroon one for a special occasion.”

“You look great,” I croak. I legitimately croak. Because now I want to know what would qualify as a special occasion between him and Josie. Second date? Third? Sock removal time? When he decides to tell her he loves her?

My stomach pitches. I think I need to sit down.

“Hey.” He moves a step closer. “Are you feeling okay?”

He peers into my eyes for evidence of whatever ails me. That’s no good. I’m not even sure what he’ll find in there. I can’t have him go digging around.

I paste on the biggest, brightest smile. “Yeah. I’m just so excited for you and Josie. I’m ready to be crowned Best Wingwoman of All Time. I think she’s going to be the one.”

He presses his lips together. “I thought you didn’t believe in ‘the one.’”

“For you? I definitely do.”

This sweet, soft look shines in his eyes. “And for you?”

“Outlook is less clear.” A pre-date pre-game is not the time to discuss my bleak romantic hopes. “Now come on.”

I take him by the shoulder and arm and push. He chuckles softly but lets me steer him through his apartment.

“You don’t want to be late, do you?” I say, ignoring the heat of his bare skin where my left hand landed on his forearm. Because of course it did.

He stops in front of the door and gazes down at me. “I want a great many things, Georgia.”

My heart stutters in my chest. Why does everything he says today feel so strangely charged? It’s like our wires are crossed, and we’re having two different conversations. His is innocent and normal, but mine is full of this bizarre, unbearable tension. Obviously, I’m the one being a weirdo in this situation.

Case in point: the way I’m clinging to his arm with both hands.

I let go of him and make shooing motions. “Go. Have a great time with Josie. Stay away from the apple bobbing station.”

I’m so upside down, I could swear he looks at me with longing in those beautiful hazel eyes. In spite of all my declarations that I only want to help him out and find the right woman for him, I’ve got a terrible urge to pull him back into his apartment and tell him I resign as wingwoman.

But I don’t do that. Because that would make me a terrible friend.