Cinnamon Roll Set Up (Cinnamon Rolls and Pumpkin Spice)

28. Miles

Chapter 28

Miles

I’m in a literal ballroom filled with some of my writing heroes, here to find out if I’ve won a prestigious award in my genre, and all I can think about is that dress Georgia’s wearing. Slinky dress. If my eyes have left her for five full minutes tonight, they owe me an apology.

The butterscotch-colored dress hugs her upper body, with little flutter sleeves that hang off her bare shoulders. The gauzy material drapes over her legs all the way to the floor, both concealing and enticing, with a slit that…well, I’m trying not to think about the slit too much. It’s got a high back, with another slit here that cuts straight down between her shoulder blades. Every glimpse of that strip of skin on her back drives me crazy.

She catches me watching her. I haven’t been subtle, so it’s happened a lot.

“What?”

I lean closer. “I’m just committing this moment to memory.”

“It’s not my usual style.” She lightly pulls at the material at her hip, making the skirt sway. “I thought about throwing my chunky sweater with bats sewn all over it on top to make sure you’d recognize me. ”

“You’d still look fantastic in the bat sweater. It’s not just the dress. It’s you.”

Do I know what she’s done with her hair, partially braided away from her face while the rest hangs loose over her bare shoulders? No. Could I explain exactly what’s different about her makeup tonight? Probably not. But she glows like a harvest goddess at my side.

I don’t know how I got this lucky.

She puts her hand in mine, intertwining our fingers. “We’re here to celebrate you.”

“That’s not what I’m celebrating tonight.”

She rolls her eyes at me, but her smile says she’s pleased.

It’s technically cocktail hour, but since I don’t drink and Georgia rarely does, we’re awkwardly standing around empty-handed. I’m not good at approaching people I don’t know in a crowded room, and even worse at it when those people have written some of my favorite books.

“Is there anyone you want to meet?” Georgia asks.

“Yes…but no. As a fan, absolutely. I could approach that man there, whose series got me through college. Or that woman over there with the big crowd around her? Her books have lived rent-free in my head since middle school. But to walk up to them as a peer?” I shake my head, an unfortunate lump lodged in my throat. “I don’t know if I can do that.”

I fully realize I’m up for an award tonight, but that doesn’t help me shake the sense I don’t belong here.

Georgia runs a hand along my suit sleeve, comforting my mini freak out. “But you are their peer. I understand that you’ve been a fan of their books since before you started writing, but you have fans now, too. A lot more than just Booker and Dean.”

She’s not wrong. I still don’t want to move from this exact spot .

And apparently, I won’t have to. A man walks up to us with his hand out, a big smile on his face.

“Miles Forrester,” he says as we shake hands. I’m legitimately unsure who he is, but he carries himself as if I should know. He doesn’t offer his name, either. “Up for the Rising Star . First awards ceremony?”

“Does it show?”

“You’ve got that wide-eyed look about you. You’ll get used to it. We all write our books the same way—drunk and on a deadline.” He laughs at his joke and then throws back the last of the liquor in his glass.

“I like your Aster books. Interested to see how you wrap things up. Good luck tonight.”

He walks off, and it’s like the seal has been broken. I won’t say everyone approaches me after that, but I meet more authors than I can properly keep track of. Experienced authors, new writers, and people I’ve never heard of but likely will one day.

It’s overwhelming meeting so many people. And the notion that they actually want to meet me? Bizarre.

I get asked when my next book is coming out. If I’m part of the larger Texas sci-fi writers’ association. Someone suggests I should level up with a new agent who’ll bring in a bigger advance on my next series. Another author tells me his key piece of advice is to take leadership courses so I can properly manage my “team.”

I’m grateful for my agent and editor, but the only person I care about having on my team is Georgia. I’ve never been able to manage her very well, and I wouldn’t change a thing. She’s the one who’s always at my side, ready with a fresh idea for the bookshop or eager to listen to me talk through plot holes. She’s my best friend in every sense, the person I trust the most, and can be my truest self with .

I am madly, deeply in love with this woman. I just need to find the right time to tell her.

Surrounded by increasingly tipsy writers is not it.

The emcee announces it’s time to find seats in the next room so the ceremony can begin. I take Georgia’s hand and move with her through the crowd, wishing we were alone. Maybe dancing somewhere, since I’d like a legitimate reason to touch that flattering dress and hold her close. I really don’t care, as long as we’re together.

We sit down, and Georgia leans closer, a hint of pumpkin spice moving with her. “In this crowd, I feel like noisemakers would have been perfectly appropriate.”

There are ten awards, and nobody’s quiet when the winners are announced. We stand and applaud for everyone as the crystal prizes are handed out. Thankfully, winners aren’t allowed to make a speech when they win. They walk up, receive the award, get a picture snapped, and move along.

I shift my face even closer to hers. “Thank you for being here with me tonight.”

She beams at me. “I’m proud of you, no matter what happens.”

“No matter what happens, being with you is the best part of the night.”

Cheesy, but perfectly true. The nomination is flattering, and it’s a new experience to be with so many authors like this. But the thing keeping me in my seat isn’t the hope of an award.

It’s her.

I want her to chase her dreams just as much as I’ve been able to chase mine. I want her to have these moments for herself, too. To have her talents be celebrated and fully seen. Even if that means she leaves the bookshop so she can pursue her art full time.

But again, not the right moment for that conversation .

I don’t know exactly how I thought the evening would go. I don’t want to say I came here expecting to lose, but I didn’t drive down to Austin planning to win, either. I know my books are good, but I wouldn’t have called them award-worthy.

Until suddenly, they are.

It takes my brain a few seconds to process it when the emcee calls my name. Georgia gives my shoulder a little shove, snapping me out of it. I move to the podium in a daze, my ears ringing with applause. The next thing I know, I’m walking back through the maze of tables, a surprisingly heavy crystal award in my hands signifying I’m a Rising Star .

That this room full of science fiction authors think my career is worthy of notice. It’s hard to comprehend, honestly.

Georgia’s standing and cheering louder than everyone else. I move without thinking. I set down the award and lift her into my arms, pressing my face against her neck until she laughs. I spin her around once, letting her skirts twirl around us, before I put her feet back on the floor.

I kiss her like it’s inevitable, one hand on the back of her head and the other sliding up the soft fabric of her dress to the thin bare strip of skin on her back. For one brief moment, we’re the only ones in the room. There’s just Georgia and me, breathing in time, our mouths and hands moving together in celebration. And the only thing I’m celebrating is us .

I kiss her until we’re breathless, and even then, I only stop when the wolf whistles start up. Applause rises again as we draw apart.

“I always knew it would be you,” she says.

I want that sentence to be about so much more than an award.

We sit back down to cheer for the last two winners, and I don’t think I’ve ever smiled this hard. It’s for the award, sure. It’s a thrill and an honor to be recognized by other writers this way, and I’m unlikely to ever forget this night.

But mostly it’s that Georgia’s the one here with me.

When all is said and done, it’s a relief to leave the conference center. My excitement hasn’t faded, but my enthusiasm for socializing has. I just want to go someplace quiet with Georgia so I can slow down and process.

Outside the venue, the cool evening air greets us. She shivers, apparently feeling the drop in temperature from when we got here this afternoon. I slip off my suit jacket and wrap it around her shoulders.

“Miles,” she says softly. “Will you take me somewhere?”

Has she read my mind? I pull the coat lapels closed over where she’s clutching my award to her chest like a baby. “Anywhere you want.”

She gazes up at me and pulls her lower lip between her teeth. The sight urges me to take her place and be the one to nip at her soft lip. Her earlobe. The soft juncture at her neck. But then her teasing smile peeks out.

“Can we get Whataburger on our way out of Austin? The finger food they had in there was not enough. I need fries.”

I laugh and kiss her forehead. “That’s my girl.”

I have never been so eager to go to a drive-through in my life.