I know that guy better than he knows himself, so it’s not hard to understand that he’s silently asking why I didn’t tell him that Miller is the girl he fell in love with from the elevator this morning.
“Isaiah, Miller. Miller, Isaiah. My brother.”
“Buy one, get one. Fun,” I hear her say, but I still can’t see her because my brother is frozen in the entryway.
“I’m the uncle,” he finally blurts out.
She laughs, a deep throaty sound that goes straight to my dick. “I put that together from the whole brother thing.”
“Isaiah, move.”
“Yeah. Welcome. Come on in.” He ushers her inside as if it were his room to welcome her into. “Can I get you anything? Water? A snack? My number?”
She completely ignores him.
As soon as he’s out of the way, she comes into view, still wearing those cutoff overalls and I’m not quite sure what’s so fascinating to me about her thighs, but they’re thick and muscular, the kind you get from years of playing softball.
And I can’t stop imagining how blissfully constricting they’d feel around my waist. Or even better—my face.
But then I remember this is Monty’s kid I’m thinking about, and I have to close my eyes to keep myself from looking at her.
“You good, Baseball Daddy?”
Isaiah cackles.
My eyes shoot open to find her looking at me like there’s something very, very wrong with me and clearly there is if I’m looking at this woman like that.
She’s borderline certifiable.
“Yeah.” I clear my throat. “This is Max.” I nod my head towards him, shifting my hip so he can see her better.
“Hi, Max,” Miller says, her eyes softening.
That wild-girl edge I saw this morning is calmer now, maybe for Max’s sake or maybe for mine, I’m not sure, but a small amount of my hesitation about this situation eases away.
Max blushes, burying his head into the crook of my neck, knocking off his little ball cap in the process. He’s being shy, vastly different from his desperation to get to Miller this morning, but he’s not afraid of her the way he is with most strangers. I think he’s simply aware of her attention, and even though he’s acting like he doesn’t, he likes it.
But there’s a part of me that’s loving that my son wants me regardless of the pretty girl calling out his name.
“He’s being shy.”
“That’s okay, Max. I tend to have that effect on boys.”
My eyes dart to Isaiah. Case in point—my brother, who is frozen like a statue in the kitchen, silent but mesmerized.
“Should we show Miller all your stuff?” I ask my son.
Max reaches up to use his hat to cover his pink cheeks, but it’s on the floor so his giddy smile is pretty obvious behind his arm.
“Come on, Bug.” I take his empty pouch, setting it on the kitchen counter before placing him on his feet.
“Bug?”
“It’s his nickname. The first time I ever saw him, he was wearing a onesie that was covered in a pastel bug print. So, Bug kind of stuck.”
With Max’s hands in the air, I hold on to each of them with my own, letting him use me to balance himself as he takes slow, wonky steps into the kitchen.
“He’s not walking on his own yet?”
My head snaps up to Miller, looking for a judgmental glare to accompany her statement, but there isn’t one. In fact, nothing in her tone was judgmental either.
It’s a me thing, thinking others are judging my parenting skills or my son’s progression. He’s fifteen months old. Maybe he should be walking. Maybe he should have more words in his vocabulary. I don’t fucking know. To be honest, I don’t want to know because I’m doing my best. Am I failing as a parent? Possibly. But he’s healthy and I’m trying.
“Not yet. It’ll happen any day now, though.” I shift my attention back to Max as he continues to take shaky steps into the kitchen, not letting her see the concern on my face that I’m screwing up this whole “dad” thing.
“That’s kind of nice. I’m glad I don’t have to worry about him running away on me,” she chuckles.
Looking up at her, I catch her watching my son with a soft smile. She’s not judging us.
She’s not judging me.
“He’s a hell of a crawler though.” Letting go of his hands, Max immediately folds onto the ground before he takes off crawling. “He’ll be on his hands and knees most of the time.”