“What?”

His tipsy-squinting eyes narrow further. “Can’t tell if you’re kidding.”

“No?” I say.

“I work at a winery, Daphne,” he says.

“Since when?” I say, disbelieving.

“For the last seven years,” he says. “What did you think I did?”

“I don’t know,” I say. “I thought you were a delivery guy.”

“Why?” He shakes his head. “Based on what?”

“I don’t know!” I say. “Can I just have some wine?”

He pulls his legs out from under me and stands, crossing to the kitchen. Through the gap between the island and the upper cabinets, I watch him dig through a cupboard I’m realizing I’ve absolutely never opened. The slice of it that I can see from here is filled with elegant glass bottles: white wine, pink, orange, red. He grabs two, then comes back to flop down beside me, pulling a corkscrew key chain off his belt loop.

The windows are open, and it’s starting to sprinkle, the day’s humidity breaking as he pops the cork from one bottle and hands the whole thing to me.

“No glass?” I say.

“You think you’ll need one?” he asks, working the other bottle’s cork free.

My eyes wander toward the expensive card-stock invitation still lying on Miles’s threadbare kilim rug. “Guess not.”

He clinks his bottle to mine and takes a long drink. I do the same, then wipe a drip of wine from my chin with the back of my hand.

“You really didn’t know I worked at a winery?” he says.

“Zero idea,” I say. “Peter made it sound like you do a ton of odd jobs.”

“I do a few different things,” he says noncommittally. “In addition to working at a winery. Cherry Hill. You’ve never been?” He looks up at me.

I shake my head and take another sip.

The corners of his mouth twitch downward. “He never liked me, did he?”

“No,” I admit. “What about Petra? Did she hate my guts?”

He frowns at his wine bottle. “No. Petra pretty much likes everyone, and everyone likes Petra.”

“I don’t,” I say. “I don’t like Petra even one tiny bit.”

He looks up at me through a half-formed smile. “Fair.”

“She never . . .” I twist my feet down in between the bottom seat cushions and the back ones. “I don’t know, acted jealous of me? Did you have any idea she was . . . into him?”

Another wry, not-quite-happy smile as he turns in toward me. “I mean, yeah, sometimes I wondered. Of course. But they’d been best friends since they were kids. I couldn’t compete with that, so I left it alone and hoped it wouldn’t be a problem.”

Somehow, out of everything, that’s what does it: I start to cry.

“Hey.” Miles moves closer. “It’s okay. It’s . . . fuck.” He pulls me roughly into his chest, his wine bottle still hanging from his hand. He kisses the top of my head like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

In actuality, it’s the first time he’s touched me, period. I’ve never been super physically affectionate with even my close friends, but I have to admit that after weeks of exactly no physical contact, it feels nice to be held by a near–perfect stranger.

“It’s ridiculous,” he says. “It’s unbelievably fucked.” He smooths my hair back with his free hand as I cry into his T-shirt, which smells only very faintly of weed, and much more of something spicy and woodsy.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I should’ve thrown the invitation away. I don’t know why I didn’t.”

“No.” I draw back, wiping my eyes. “I get it. You didn’t want to be alone with it.”

His gaze drops guiltily. “I should’ve kept it to myself.”

“I would’ve done the same thing,” I say. “I promise.”

“Still,” he murmurs. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” I insist. “You’re not the one marrying Petra instead of me.”

He winces a little.

“Shit! Now I’m sorry,” I say.

He shakes his head as he sits back from me. “I just need a minute,” he says, avoiding my gaze. He turns his head to stare out the window.

Oh, god. He’s crying now too. Or trying very hard not to. Shit, shit, shit.

“Miles!” I’m in a panic. It’s been a while since I comforted someone.

“I just need a second,” he repeats. “I’m fine.”

“Hey!” I crawl across the couch toward him and take his face in my hands, proof that the wine has hit my bloodstream.

Miles looks up at me.

“They,” I say, “suck.”

“She’s the love of my life,” he says.

“The love of your life sucks,” I tell him.

He fights a smile. There’s something adorable about it, so puppyish that I find myself tempted to ruffle his already messy hair. When I do, his smile just barely slants up. The movement makes his dark eyes glimmer.

It’s been six weeks since I last had sex—by no means a personal record—but at his expression, I feel a surprising zing of awareness between my thighs.

Miles is handsome, if not the kind of man to make your jaw drop and hands sweat on sight. That was Peter—TV handsome, Mom called it. The kind that knocks you off balance from the start.

Miles is the other kind. The kind that’s disarming enough that you don’t feel nervous talking to him, or like you need to show your best angle, until—wham! Suddenly, he’s smiling at you with his messy hair and impish smirk, and you realize his hotness has been boiling around you so slowly you missed it.

Also, he smells better than expected.

Counterpoint: he’s my roommate and was just crying over the love of his life.

There are surely more pragmatic ways to take our minds off this mess. “Do you want to watch Bridget Jones’s Diary?” I offer.

“No.” He shakes his head and I release my hold on his face, surprised how my heart flags at the rejection, or maybe just the thought of shuffling to my bedroom to be alone with these feelings.

“We shouldn’t mope,” he goes on, with another shake of his head.

“But I’m getting so good at it,” I whine.

“Let’s go out,” he says.

“Out?” It sounds like I’ve never even heard the word before. “Out where?”

Miles stands, stretching a hand out to me. “I know a place.”

OceanofPDF.com

4

Two hours ago, I never would’ve guessed I’d end the night at a neighborhood bar called MEATLOCKER, but here I am, taking shots with my roommate and an old biker named Gill.

Gill had thoroughly approved when Miles started up “Witchy Woman” on the jukebox in the corner, and after drunkenly sidling up to us and making conversation, he’d wanted to know how we’d met, likely assuming we were a couple. Without any hesitation, Miles told him, “The love of my life ran off with her fiancé,” and this had inspired much alcohol-based charity on Gill’s part.

As we’d played a round of darts, two rounds of pool, and a drinking game whose rules were completely incomprehensible to me, I watched in awe as Miles expertly extracted Gill’s life story from him.

Born in Detroit to a nurse and a maintenance tech injured on the job at an automobile manufacturer, Gill had fled the Midwest at sixteen via motorcycle. He’d followed a band on the road for a decade, then briefly joined a cult in California, done security for the stars, and wound up back here after some mysterious trouble, either with the law or possibly the mob—the only thing Miles couldn’t get out of him.