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Page Six

“He stuck his what into her where ?” I ask as I saunter up behind my new roommate, who is busily tapping away at her keyboard in my kitchen.

She slams the lid to her laptop shut, and she whirls around, embarrassment in her eyes as her cheeks redden. “Don’t sneak up behind me! Especially when I’m writing a sex scene!”

“I’m sorry!” I hold up both hands. “I wasn’t sneaking, I swear. I just walked in to get dinner started.”

“I thought I was your new personal chef,” she says, pursing her lips.

“Oh, sorry. Did you start dinner?”

She rolls her eyes. “No. I’ve been writing.”

I laugh. “Okay, then let me get dinner started.” I open a drawer and pull out the takeout menus that they staple to the bag when I order food.

I only keep the menus for the places I like, and this is an easier method than trying to remember restaurant names and locate their menus online. “What are you in the mood for? ”

She lifts a shoulder. “I don’t know. What’s good around here?”

“There’s a good sushi place not far, Italian, seafood.” I flip through the menus. “We have it all, though fair warning, the Mexican is better back home.”

“What about shrimp tacos? I really want shrimp tacos.”

I pull out the menu for my favorite seafood place, and sure enough, they have shrimp tacos on the menu.

“Let’s go out and celebrate your first night in town instead of ordering in,” I suggest, and she nods.

She glances down at her black leggings and T-shirt with a stack of books and a cup of coffee on top, and something about those leggings makes her ass look absolutely phenomenal. “Let me just go change my clothes.”

I chuckle as I glance down at my black San Diego Storm collared shirt and the khaki shorts I paired with it. “Don’t do it for me.”

“Give me five minutes.” She takes her laptop with her, and I’m tempted to tell her she doesn’t have to. After what just happened with her ex, I don’t blame her. But I want her to know she can always trust me. I would never do something like that to her. I would never do anything to hurt her.

I’m sure she knows that after all these years. I’m sure she’s just being a good roommate and cleaning up after herself.

But the thought still crosses my mind that there’s a bit of psychology behind it for her.

I call the restaurant to reserve a table while she changes. She appears in the kitchen fifteen minutes later, and she looks…

Well, gorgeous.

She’s wearing a simple black dress paired with black flat shoes, and her dark hair falls in loose waves around her shoulders. Her brown eyes seem bigger somehow, like she did some makeup to make them brighter. Her cheeks are pink and her lips are shiny, and fuck , I can’t stop staring at them.

I can’t stop thinking about that kiss in her mom’s kitchen.

Pull it together, Banks.

I feel like I’m telling myself that a lot around her.

We climb into the truck and head toward the restaurant, and nerves climb up my spine. There’s nothing to be nervous about, obviously. I’m just taking my best friend—my new roommate—out to dinner.

I just wish it were a date.

I force myself to shake it off, weaving easily through traffic as we make our way toward our destination. She turns up a song by Pink that comes on the radio, and we both sing along.

The restaurant is busy at dinnertime every night of the week, but I manage to find a tiny spot for my huge truck at the back of the lot.

We walk toward the restaurant, and some dude in the parking lot does a double take when he sees her.

Maybe it’s for me—I don’t know. I’m usually recognized around these parts since I play for the local pro football team, but it feels like he’s looking at her.

I have the strongest urge to grab her hand. To mark my territory. To let everyone know she’s here with me.

And physically, yes, that’s true. But walking into a restaurant together isn’t the same as being together.

I think back to a conversation I had with my brother just a few months ago. He told me he was going to shoot my shot for me because I did it for him.

I didn’t, really. I just told the woman he loved that he needed her, and the rest is history. She showed up when he needed her most, just like I did for Sophie.

I know Tanner never really would do that, though. It’s different with Soph and me, with our history and our friendship. But sometimes I think the only way I’d ever take the shot is to let someone else take it for me.

We both order the shrimp tacos, and she orders a margarita, so I get one, too.

It’s been years since I’ve had a margarita. Tequila is more my brother’s drink of choice, while I usually lean toward whiskey or beer, but tonight we’re celebrating Sophie. Her new job, her new home, her new city. Her new roommate.

And, lest we forget, her new engagement.

I did forget. Sort of.

I didn’t forget that kiss. It’s been right there at the forefront of my head since it happened. But like everything where she’s concerned, I’m locking it into a little box and throwing away the key.

Except it doesn’t really go quite that way.

We both just ordered a second round of margaritas when I hear a woman’s voice. “Oh my God, is that Miller Banks?”

My head whips up at the sound of my name, which happens to be my first mistake since it’s essentially admitting that yes, it’s me.

“It is Miller Banks!” another woman beside her says.

I offer a small wave and a sheepish smile.

“Can we get a pic?” the first one asks, and I smile politely and glance at Sophie.

She holds up both hands. “Don’t say no on my account.”

I chuckle and nod, and the first one takes her friend’s phone as the second one moves in beside me.

The first one holds up the phone and says, “Smile, San Diego’s most eligible bachelor!”

“Oh, God, Chelsea, he’s on a date!” the one who’s currently leaning into my side for a picture says.

I don’t bother to correct her, and neither does my date . And it’s a good thing, too, because of what happens next .

“I know, but we can still have a little fun, right?” She snaps the picture, and then she switches places with her friend.

I smile for the second photo, trying my hardest to make the smile genuine and not stilted as these two interrupt my dinner with Sophie.

“Is he still considered a bachelor if he’s engaged?” the one called Chelsea asks.

My brows dip together. “Huh?”

“Is this your fiancé? I just saw a snippet on Page Six.”

“ Page Six ?” I repeat.

Why the fuck would Page Six be reporting that I’m engaged?

“Yeah, you know. The celebrity gossip column?” she says, defining it as if I don’t know what it is. She looks between Sophie and me. “Oh, did they get it wrong? Are you not engaged?”

My gaze falls on Sophie, who’s smiling like a pro while I’m getting a strong sense of whiplash.

“Oh, we’re engaged,” Sophie says smugly.

“Can I see the ring?” Chelsea asks.

“We’re going this weekend to pick one out together, right, honey?” she says, her eyes moving to me and widening in that way that says play along .

I guess I don’t have a choice. “Right, babe.” I move over toward her and angle my head down.

Shoot your shot, Miller.

I press my lips to hers for the second time today, and for the second time today, I feel the wind knocked clean out of me.

I force myself not to open my mouth. Not to deepen the kiss. Not to do anything other than put on a show for the two women currently staring at our every move.

A margarita and a half in…and it’s hard.

I have to go against every instinct telling me to give her the kind of kiss I’ve wanted to give her for the last sixteen years.

Maybe someday. Just not today.