By the time we actually make it to the dessert table, I’ve also met: Miles’s favorite cheesemonger, the owner of Cherry City Cherry Goods, Molly of Molly’s Popcorn Emporium fame, and the guy who runs the walk-up ice cream place, Frosty Dips. I’ve also had an exceptionally brief conversation with Barb and Lenore, right before a volunteer ran up requiring their assistance “breaking up some necking” in the indoor pool room.

In the last hour, the Read-a-thon has racked up: a free charcuterie board for its volunteers, one hundred gift bags of chocolate-covered cherries, an assortment of popcorn, and one large (tax-free) cash donation.

I, meanwhile, have accumulated a surplus of both awe and hunger. As Miles and I hover over the dessert table, loading a shared plate up with cookies and cake slices and individual cups of chocolate ganache, I say, still half-dazed, “I don’t understand how you just did that.”

He hands me a pink macaron, which I put directly into my mouth. “I didn’t do anything,” he says. “People care about what you’re doing.”

“Maybe,” I say, mouth full. “But I’ve been trying to get ahold of someone from Frosty Dips for a while.”

“Well, Dillard from Frosty Dips’s brother runs the hardware store slash barbershop I go to,” Miles says.

“I’ve been here long enough to just accept that sentence,” I say. “I also emailed Popcorn Emporium back in March.”

Miles frowns at that, adds a light golden macaron to the plate. “I know this sucks, but sometimes people need to put a face on something before they’re willing to help. An email doesn’t do that.”

“Thank you for being the face,” I say.

He turns toward me. “You made them care, not me.”

“Well, I think my being the fake girlfriend of the mayor of Waning Bay didn’t hurt. So thanks. Really.”

He turns toward me, smiling through the twinkling lights, and taps a lime-green macaron in between my lips. “Anytime,” he says.

I manage not to moan, but it still feels too intimate. The veranda is almost entirely abandoned, and darker than the ballroom, and despite the breeze, I feel flushed.

I clear my throat. “Should we go inside?”

“If you want,” he hums.

“Let’s do it,” I say, and start forward.

But in choosing whether to stay out here in the electric dark alone with him or go back into a crowded room, I forgot to calculate for one important variable.

The one we nearly run smack into as soon as we get inside.

Petra’s aquamarine eyes flare, for a millisecond, before her expression melts into a warm smile and a throaty femme fatale purr of “Oh my god, it’s so good to see you guys.”

To which I say nothing, largely because she’s already wrapped me in a hug that smells like sandalwood, a glossy curtain of blond completely obscuring my vision until she pulls away.

She goes for Miles next, doesn’t hurl herself at him like she did me, but instead draws up onto her tiptoes and squeezes him to her.

One of his arms comes up across her back, his other hand setting the dessert plate down on the table next to us.

He manages his own, even “You too” to her, and I wish for the floor to open up and swallow me whole or the booze to knock me out cold.

“You look beautiful,” Petra says, squeezing my forearm.

“Thanks,” I force out. “You too.”

“I love this dress,” she says. “It’s so different! Your usual style is so . . . buttoned up.”

Ouch.

Miles touches my back, his hand skimming over to my far hip, pulling me into his side. “Like a secret,” he says.

I look up at him, the gratitude in my upper abdomen giving way to an ache, a want.

“Or a librarian,” Peter adds tartly, and even though I’m ninety percent sure he didn’t mean this as a dig at me, the wind still leaves my sails at being reminded of the disparity between me and the woman both men present have loved.

Miles’s hand slides forward from my hip around my stomach, drawing me into him so that my back is pressed to his front. “Yeah, I’ve always had a thing about that,” he says.

“About what?” Petra says.

“Hot librarians,” he says, looking down at me with a faint grin that hits my heart like the first shock of a defibrillator.

“What about you, Daphne?” Peter says.

I flinch, look back at him. I don’t know if they realize they’re doing it, but Peter and Petra have drawn closer too, like this is some competitive Dirty Dancing situation.

He’s got an arm hooked around her waist, and she’s set a hand proprietarily on his chest. “You been harboring a secret bartender fantasy?” Peter asks dryly.

And once again, I’m mostly sure he’s not trying to be a dick to me, but I’m also sure he does mean to be a dick to Miles.

Judging from Petra’s gaping mouth and tight brow, she thinks so too.

And then there’s Miles, who I feel tense behind me, even though he’s still smiling, one hand still gently rubbing over my hip bone like he’s not bothered at all.

I am. I’m bothered.

“No,” I say firmly, turning in to Miles. I loop my own arms around his waist, basically propping my boobs up on his chest, and gazing into his eyes as I say, “But the roommate thing is pretty hot.”

Miles’s pupils flare as he takes the cue, one hand cupping my jaw, and kisses me.

And I’ve kissed Miles in front of Peter before—a kiss that was a move in a game—but this feels different.

This one is the prize.

Slow, soft, familiar. A relief of a kiss, and over way, way too soon, though from the way Petra is gawking at us, you’d think we’d just performed a handstanding sixty-nine in front of God and everyone.

Miles knots his hand through mine, his knuckles tightening as he clears his throat. “Excuse us,” he says. “I’ve been waiting all week to dance with Daphne.”

He tugs me away from them, and I follow, brain foggy but heart racing as it all replays.

The light, upward brush of his lips, the pressure of his tongue, the way his hand rolled back and forth across my hip bone while his other tilted my jaw to the perfect angle.

We draw to a stop near the center of the dance floor, the twinkling lights seeming to shimmer and dance across his face as the mirror ball twirls over us. “You okay?” he asks.

“Yeah, good,” I say, voice small.

“Good,” he says, and folds his fingers through mine again, drawing me in, already slightly swaying along to Neil Young’s “Harvest Moon.” He sets his other hand against my back, every motion so slow, so considered, every second engraving itself into my memory.

“I’m sorry,” I say. His brow furrows. “For what Peter said.”

“Ah.” His shoulder twitches toward a shrug. “It’s fine.”

“It’s not,” I say.

“It’s nothing I didn’t hear from Petra’s family for the last three years,” he replies.

My hand involuntarily clenches into the fabric of his shirt, like that will do any good, protect him from anyone who doesn’t understand what kind of gift he is.

“I thought you said they were nice,” I say.

“No, they were.” Another shrug, a sidelong dart of his eyes before they drop. “Every once in a while, though, there were comments. ‘Must be nice not to have to grow up.’ Things like that.”

“Miles. That’s not nice.”

“She always thought I was reading too much into it,” he says. “But I think they were worried I couldn’t give Petra everything they want for her.”

“Then they’re not only mean, they’re also stupid.”

“They had a point,” he says. “I’ve never been good under pressure. I would’ve fucked it up eventually.”

“Based on what?” I demand.

His smile is rueful. “History.”

For several seconds, neither of us speaks. We just slowly sway and turn with the music. “Thank you, by the way,” he murmurs. “For what you said to Peter.”

It takes me a second to remember what I said, and then the lava starts coursing through my face. “Sorry about that.”