Cheryl
Miles finally made it through the window, landing with a soft thud before sighing heavily.
"Cheryl, it wasn't me. I swear. I didn’t do it—it must have been my dad," he said, his hands resting on his waist, frustration evident in his expression.
My phone dinged.
Anna.
I opened the message and saw more photos. One of me walking out of the restaurant, captioned: Girl, you look so hot.
Another one showed Miles smashing a camera.
I giggled. That was kind of hot.
Miles exhaled deeply. "Please, let’s go home," he said, sounding tired.
I liked seeing him like this—frustrated, exasperated, desperate for me.
Pressing my lips together, I slid onto the couch and turned off the lights. "No."
"Fine," he muttered, shaking his head. "But I’m not leaving you again."
He sat on the floor
