Caught Up (Windy City Series)

My start this week is tomorrow night in Boston. We got into the city this afternoon and Isaiah immediately took Max and all his stuff, declaring he was having a sleepover with his nephew tonight.

Even though I strive to spend as much of my time off with my son, it’s good for us both that he creates his own relationships, especially with the people who will be in his life forever.

So, with my evening free, I knock on the door between my hotel room and Miller’s. Bouncing on my toes, nerves rattle through me because it’s been a couple of days since we’ve really spoken.

Well, other than the night following our moment in the kitchen. I hadn’t talked to her all day, so she snuck back into her van that night to sleep. Ten minutes later, I barged in, threw her over my shoulder, and put her ass right back in my guest room, reminding her she wasn’t allowed to sleep outside anymore.

For once, I had someone there to celebrate the good moments with me. When Max took his first steps, she was there. And then that evening, with my friends, she fit in seamlessly. And sure, there were some ulterior motives to that dinner.

When the time comes, I want it to be hard for Miller to leave and not just because I’ve enjoyed having her here, but because it’s one of the most important parts of life. Finding people that make your heart ache when they’re not around. Having a place to call home.

Instead of Miller being the one to get lost in the fantasy of her sticking around Chicago, I was the one who did. In what world am I supposed to simply be okay with her leaving?

How the hell am I supposed to forget what her laugh sounds like? What her lips taste like?

I want her. Fuck, do I want her. Any sane, straight man would jump at the opportunity of having her as an unattached fuck buddy the way she wants, but my brain forgot how to do casual all the while my dick is praying I’ll remember.

So yeah, I’m mad at myself because I don’t understand how to have her while knowing that one day soon, I’ll have to let her leave. And instead of growing up and telling her that, I’ve resorted to avoidance.

I knock on our adjoining door once again, but she still doesn’t answer.

I try her phone with no luck.

Finding both Monty and Kennedy’s contacts, I individually shoot them the same text.

Kennedy and Miller seem on the brink of becoming friends regardless that she likes to assume she doesn’t have any. I can see how excited Miller gets anytime Kennedy is around. She’s the only other woman on the road with us, so maybe they’re hanging out now?

Me: Happen to know where Miller is?

Kennedy: No, but your brother won’t stop sending me selfies of him and Max, asking if I want to come over and play house with him.

She forwards me a couple of the images of my brother and son on the floor, playing with toys. The pictures are clearly Isaiah’s newest form of a thirst trap. His playboy thing has never done it for Kennedy, so I guess he’s going with the family man route and seeing if that lands.

Me: Want me to tell him to leave you alone?

Kennedy: I’ve got it handled. I’ve been dealing with your brother for years. When it comes to Isaiah Rhodes, my favorite thing to do is to humble him.

Me: Have fun with that.

Kennedy: I always do.

In a separate text thread, Monty responds.

Monty: Why?

Me: Weird answer. Is she with you?

Monty: What are your intentions with my daughter?

Okay, he’s definitely with Miller. Grabbing my hotel key, I leave my room and head towards his.

Me: This new overprotective dad thing doesn’t track. She lives in a van, and you’re cool with it. She travels all over the country alone for work. No way are my intentions your greatest concern when it comes to her.

Monty: I’m asking a simple question here. So defensive, Ace. I’ve already caught you in bed with her once. Anything else I should know?

Fucking hell.

Taking a few turns down the hallway on our floor, I find Monty’s room and knock.

“Yes?” he asks, cracking the door only slightly.

“Miller here?”

“Anything you’re wanting to tell me?”

“Dad, stop,” I hear Miller scold from the background. With her hand around the door, she opens it fully, exposing her pretty brunette hair and olive-green overalls. “He’s been like this all day.”

“That’s because you two have been acting like strangers. Something clearly happened.”

Well . . . shit.

Miller ignores him, her eyes tracing my clothes, fully dressed and ready to leave the hotel. “What’s up? Need help with Max?”

“No, he’s with Isaiah tonight, but I was wondering . . .” My eyes flit to Monty standing behind his daughter, big arms crossed over his chest. He uses two fingers to point to his eyes before directing them my way, telling me he’s watching me. “Can you fucking stop? This is weird, Monty.”

Miller whips around, but he plays it completely cool. “I have no idea what he’s talking about.”

I roll my eyes, redirecting them towards the tattooed beauty. “I was wondering if you wanted to go somewhere with me.”

“Where?”

“It’s a surprise.”

Her greens sparkle. “Baseball Daddy, are you propositioning me to have some fun?”

“Something like that.”

Miller turns back to her dad. “Do you mind?”

“Have her back by curfew.”

Her eyes narrow. “In what fucking world would I have a curfew? I wasn’t asking for permission. Stop being weird. I was just asking if you mind if I don’t finish our movie.”

“Nine p.m. sharp,” is Monty’s only response.

We’re both exhausted of him. “It’s already nine-thirty.”

Grabbing her denim jacket from the couch, Miller pats her dad’s arm. “You should probably rehearse that for next time. I’m sure you could do better.”

The typical smile he wears around his daughter finally cracks through. “I’ve always wanted to play the overbearing dad watching his daughter leave for a date. What would make it more believable next time?”

“I’m not sure, I’ve never had one.” Leaving the hotel room, she offers her dad a quick wave. “See you tomorrow.”

“Love you, Millie.”

“Love you.”

Together we walk to the elevator. “Never had what?” I ask. “An overbearing dad or a date?”

“Neither.” She stops in her tracks, turning in to face me. “This isn’t a date, right?”

“Oh, I know you better than that. I wouldn’t dare take you on a date. That’s way too much commitment for you, Montgomery.”

When our rideshare drops us in the North End of Boston, my hand immediately finds the small of Miller’s back, ushering her towards the bustling building. I’d rather hold her hand, lace our fingers together, but I have to take it slow with her, keep her from overthinking it all.

A line of patrons spills outside and wraps around the corner, and once we get to our spot in the back, Miller takes her time checking out the red brick buildings, trying to piece together where we are.

It’s clear this is Boston’s version of Little Italy, with their Italian flags and string lights draped over the cobblestone roads from building to building. There’s another bakery across the street that’s as busy as this one, but Rio told me they only had cannoli and that I should bring Miller here instead.

“Are we getting dessert?” she asks as we inch closer to the entrance. Her eyes widen comically when she looks through the windows, spotting countless glass cases filled with sweets. “Holy shit, this is exactly what my heaven looks like.”

“Your heaven, huh?”

“Yeah, we all have our own versions. Mine looks a lot like this but without all those bullshit glass cases in the way, but somehow, the desserts are still always fresh.” She finally breaks her staring contest with the bakery, turning her attention back to me. “What would yours look like?

“I can ask for anything I want?”

“Anything.”

“Well, I’m not sure what it would look like, but you’d be there and every time we were alone, your clothes would magically disappear right off your body. It’ll be my first request when I get into my heaven. In fact, it’ll be my favorite part.”

She startles with a laugh, and for a woman I find to be funny, my ego grows at a stupid rate every time I get to hear it.

The line starts to move again, and she goes ahead of me, closer and closer to getting inside. From behind I wrap a single arm around the front of her shoulders, the size of my hands and the veins that accompany it contradicting the soft floral lines on her tanned skin.

“I’m sorry I’ve been avoiding you,” I say softly, my mouth close to her ear.

She grasps my forearm, giving it a squeeze. “It’s okay. You’re apologizing with sugar so clearly, you’re forgiven.”

We step forward with the line, this time making it inside the building, the smell of cinnamon and chocolate hitting us the second we walk through the door. Miller’s lips curve in a childish smile and it’s so beautifully genuine, I can’t help but watch her instead of the endless glass cases of pastries, cookies, and cakes.

“Okay, what is this place?” she asks.

“Do you remember my friend Rio who you met the other night? He’s from Boston and told me about this spot. It’s mostly Italian desserts, but they have some French options and traditional American pastries as well. With my travel schedule, I know it’s hard for you to find time to get some work done, and these desserts aren’t as fancy as what you’d normally make, but I was thinking maybe you might get a little inspiration for those recipes. Who knows, maybe something will spark an idea.”

Miller stands still, not saying anything, which is strange. The girl is full of quick one-liners.

And my moment of confidence, thinking this was a good idea, has flown right out the window. “Or we don’t have to think about work at all and we could just get something that looks good to take back to the hotel.”

“No,” she quickly says, shaking her head. “No, this is . . . this is really thoughtful of you.” Her eyes flick to mine. “It sounds like the perfect idea. It also sounds a lot like a date.”

I scoff. “Clearly, you’ve never been on a date before if you think this is what they’re like. This is a work meeting, Mills. Stop getting ideas. Be professional.”

Her eyes crinkle, her smile returning as she faces the desserts again and we move up in the line, closer and closer to getting our order in. Standing in front of me, she leans back, absent-mindedly resting against my chest as she continues to window-shop.

And I’m smiling like a thirty-two-year-old child on Christmas morning because there’s been a good amount of easy touching for a business meeting.

“What do you want to get?” Her voice is almost a whisper, like it’s a secret only between us.

I fucking love seeing her like this. The smile and excitement she’s wearing now is how I envisioned her probably looking when she was a little girl and discovering her love for baking.

“Well,” I say, pulling out the folded paper from my back pocket. “I did a little research.”

“You did a little research?” she asks with a laugh. “Did you also print out your MapQuest directions to get here, old man?”

“Shut it.”

Her eyes are shining and her lips are pinched to keep herself from laughing.

“As I said, I did some research and made a list.”

“You made a list. On a piece of lined paper. With a pen.”

“You gonna just keep explaining everything I’m doing or . . .”

“There’s a notes app in your phone for a reason, Malakai.”

“Anyway.” I hold the paper in front of us, my arms caging her in. “Let’s get all of these and anything else you want to try.”

As Miller looks over my notes, comparing it to what’s in the glass cases, we continue to move up in the line. All the women working behind the counter are small, older, and Italian. They also don’t have time for any of these tourists’ shit, expecting orders to be given the second a guest makes it to them. If there’s a delay and patrons continue to peruse, a string of Italian words, presumably curses, echoes throughout the bakery.

I check over the glass cases, making sure I didn’t miss any must-have desserts. They all look amazing, and I’d take one of each if we’d have room at our table. But I’ve also been so completely spoiled by the baker living in my home that this outing is more for her than it is for me.

“Tiramisu was my mom’s favorite,” I say, pointing to the Italian cake when we pass it.

“The woman had good taste, I see.”

“Good genetics too, huh?”

She laughs. “Great genetics.”

“Next!” the woman with olive skin and gray roots hollers from the cash register.

Miller simply hands her my list of desserts. “These please.”

The woman’s lips tick up in an uncharacteristic way as her eyes scan the sheet. “I like you guys,” she states before taking off to box up our desserts.

“See,” I whisper, my hand snaking over Miller’s hip, fingers splaying over her lower belly. “My paper came in handy. There’s no way we would’ve gotten that kind of response if we handed her a fucking phone.”

She chuckles, her hand covering mine before calling out, “Can we add a tiramisu too please?”

“You got it!”

Miller simply shoots me a knowing smile over her shoulder all while doing a terrible job of making sure I don’t fall for her.

Miller sighs a happy little sigh. “That was the best hour of my life.”

Four giant pastry boxes sit on the table between us, still completely filled with only a few bites taken from each dessert. We had torrone, biscotti, éclair, and something called a lobster tail that was out of this world. I wish I could keep eating, but I’m stuffed.

“What was your favorite?” I ask.

“I don’t know if I could choose. What was yours?”

“I don’t know if I have a favorite dessert, but I did like watching you dissect them all like a mad scientist before each bite.”

“I was working, remember? This is a business meeting.”

“So . . . did you feel any spark?”

Her eyes flicker to me from across the table, a small smirk playing on her lips, and though I was referring to inspiration for work, we both know there’s always been a spark between us.

Her attention falls back to our table of desserts. “I think so.”

“Good.” Grabbing the leg of her chair, I pull it, dragging her to sit next to me and letting her know our business meeting is officially over. “Tell me everything.”

She picks up a cannoli. “I was thinking I could make a dark chocolate cylinder, like this shape, filled with a smoked hazelnut praline cream.” She points to the slice of chocolate praline pie. “Similar to those flavors, but without the heavy texture. I could do a chocolate paint on the plate, garnished with a pulled sugar piece and finished with a scoop of salted sheep’s milk ice cream.” She pauses to catch her breath. “What do you think?”

My mouth only gapes as I look at her.

“I know. I know. Who the hell would want sheep’s milk ice cream, right?”

“Your mind just created that? Out of thin air?”

For once in her life, Miller seems shy.

“That sounds incredible, Mills.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah. Damn.”

“Well, as long as I don’t fuck it up when we get home, I’ll have one recipe down. Two more to go.” A relieved smile tilts on her lips as she looks around the still busy bakery. “Thank you for bringing me. I love it here. How fun is it to watch people take that first bite?”

She’s watching someone try a pastry right now, but I’m only watching her. I don’t get that same enjoyment she does because I’m not a creative. I don’t have a product to give to the world in hopes they like it, but damn, I could watch Miller watch others eat all fucking day.

“Would you ever want to open a place like this?”

I’m aware I’m playing with fire. Asking, in a way, if she’d ever stay in one place long enough to do so.

She pins me with a look, letting me know how obvious I’m being, but she plays along. “If you asked me that seven years ago, the answer would be a very easy yes. But now? I couldn’t see it. I work in Michelin-level restaurants all over the country. I recently won an award that most chefs strive for their entire life and never get. I have a three-year waitlist of kitchens wanting to hire me. I make good money and, even though you don’t like when I say this, I feel like I owe it to my dad to do something important with my life. And, no, desserts aren’t important, but I’ve tried to make myself important in the industry. I don’t exactly have the luxury to change directions at this point in my career. Don’t you agree?”

Wow. I don’t know if Miller has ever been this vulnerable with me. Not only to divulge what’s going on in that pretty little head of hers, but to ask my opinion on it.

So, I choose my words carefully. Anything too deep and personal might send her running.

“No, I don’t agree with you at all. I think you could change directions a hundred more times in your life, and you’d never be too stuck to do so. Life is about finding your joy, living in a way that brings you and others happiness. So, I guess the real question is, does your career make you happy? Is this job your dream job?”

She pauses, thinking on it for a moment. “I’m good at it, so yeah, it’s my dream now.”

Not exactly the answer to my question, but enough for me to understand. This is what she wants out of life. This high-level career she succeeds in, never staying in one place for long.

There are things I want to say: Just because you’re talented doesn’t mean you owe it to anyone. The only thing you owe your dad is to find your happiness. Move to Chicago. Don’t leave Max.

Don’t leave me.

But I promised Monty I’d talk to him before I ever asked that of Miller, and I care too much about her dreams to ask her to give them up for me.

Miller grabs her fork and dips into the tiramisu, taking a massive bite. She sighs around it as if the ladyfingers and chocolate are the answers to all her questions. “What was your mom’s name?”

“Mae.”

“Mae,” she says wistfully. “Another ‘M’.”

I can’t help but smile. I only got her for fifteen years, but she is the best woman I know. “I wish she could’ve met Max. He would’ve had her wrapped around his chubby little finger.”

“Aren’t we all?” Miller agrees, tilting her head and leaning her chin on her palm as if she could sit and talk to me all night.

It’s been nice finally having someone to talk to, but I’m afraid the loneliness is going to be that much more obvious when she goes.

“What was she like?” she asks.

“She was . . . funny. Strong. A no-bullshit kind of woman which she had to be, raising my brother and me. But she was also soft when it came to us.” My hand finds her thigh under the table, running over the olive-green fabric. “She was a lot like you.”

I fully expect Miller to crumble. To insist I’m being too sentimental around her, but I don’t care. It’s the truth.

“I’m glad Max gets to be around a woman like her. Like you.”

Eyes searching mine, I hold strong, refusing to be intimidated by the hard shell she pretends to wear.

Miller exhales and drops her head to my shoulder, hand slipping over mine.

I count it as a win. Another moment of vulnerability Miller leaned into instead of covering with humor.

“What was your mom’s name?” I ask.

“Claire.”

“Claire,” I repeat. “Do you miss her?”

“I don’t really remember her. I was so young when she died, but I miss the idea of her. I’ve never really known what it’s like to have a mom.”

A rush of emotion hits me like a freight train, welling in my throat, both for her and for my son. Will Max feel that way? Will he miss out on the idea of a mother? I try to be enough for him, I really do, but it’s hard to be both. The good and the bad parent. The mom and the dad. It wasn’t until a month ago I finally felt as if Max was getting it all and that’s because the woman at my side waltzed into our lives.

“But my dad did a good job filling in,” she continues. “Much in the way you are.”

Fuck. I have to look up towards the ceiling to keep myself in check, to keep any welling tears at bay. It takes a moment, but eventually I’m able to swallow down the lump in my throat and place a kiss on Miller’s head as she continues to lean on my shoulder.

She takes another forkful of tiramisu, filling her mouth, and I use the pause to change the subject.

“We should probably get back from our business meeting,” I say as she tilts to look up at me.

A bit of mascarpone lingers on her lower lip, and I can’t help myself from cleaning it off with the pad of my thumb, sticking it in my mouth and sucking off the remnants that were just on her.

She tracks the movement, her green eyes hooded.

Miller only nods in agreement, both of us knowing it’s past time to get out of here.

I’m so accustomed to Miller being the forward one, the confident one. Confident enough she’d make a move.

While we’re in the elevator on the ride up to our hotel floor, I’m all but praying she does. I’m hoping for some dirty innuendo, or for her to straight up jump me because it’d give me an excuse to give in to what I want.

I want her.

There’s no denying it any longer; I want this girl more than I’ve wanted anything in my life. Sure, I want her for more than the next few weeks, but she’s made it clear I can’t have her for any longer than that. So the question is, can I keep myself detached enough to not entirely crumble when she goes?

We stand side by side in the elevator, so much quiet tension in this tiny metal box. Miller doesn’t make a move, doesn’t say something sexual to cut the tension. She lets it linger, lets me choke on it.

But we both know it isn’t her responsibility to once again declare how much she wants me. The ball is in my court, and after I’ve stopped us not only once, but twice, I’m the one who has to make a move. She’s not going to put herself in the position to get shot down again, and I truly don’t believe she’d try anything when she knows my fears of growing attached to another person who is leaving.

Her hand is right beside mine, dangling only an inch from my own. I want to pin her to the wall, press the emergency stop button and fall to my knees. It’d be fitting if I’d finally make a move and it’s in an elevator, seeing as this is where it all started.

But before I can it dings, the doors open, and Miller exhales a defeated sigh before exiting and heading straight for her room with a bit of speed to her steps. She doesn’t waste any time, pulling out her key card and holding it to the lock. “Goodnight, Kai,” she says, opening the door. “Thanks for tonight. I had fun.”

With that, she offers me a small smile, goes inside, and closes the door behind her, leaving me in the hallway.

Fuck.

Inside, I’m alone. My son’s not here. The only person I’m responsible for right now is myself and I’m really fucking tired of being responsible.

I want to be reckless and impulsive.

I want the woman on the other side of this wall, and I’m done trying to convince myself I don’t.

Why the fuck did I hesitate in the elevator?

For once, I’m not thinking about anyone else with this decision. I’m not thinking about my responsibilities. I’m not even thinking about my future self and how bad this is going to hurt when it’s done.

So what if she wants casual? Whether or not we have sex, I’m going to be a mess when she leaves, so what’s the point in abstaining from what we both want?

I’ll pretend.

I’ll fucking pretend. For her sake, I’ll keep it casual on the surface, and when she leaves at the end of the summer, I’ll wallow and bitch in private.

I can’t deny it anymore.

So, with unsteady breaths racking my chest, I raise my hand to knock on the door between our rooms, but before I can make contact, it opens.

Hand on the knob, Miller is breathing just as heavy, green eyes dark and a bit unhinged. She already took her overalls off, standing in the doorway in nothing but a little shirt and panties.

I allow myself to eye-fuck the hell out of her because I’ve spent too many days pretending like she’s not the only thing I see.

Her attention finds my balled hand still hanging in the air, a bit of surprise ghosting her face. “Why were you about to knock?”

“Why did you open the door?”

“I asked first.”

“I was going to knock because I’m about to be selfish.” Stepping forward, I cross the threshold between her room and mine, recognizing the metaphor of it all. “For once, I’m going to take what I want.”

The corner of her lip lifts in a dangerous grin. “Finally.”