She’s lucky she doesn’t have to deal with a raging boner the way I currently am.
“Ace,” Monty starts, heading back to my room. “I think it’s time we have a conversation.”
“I don’t think we have to do that.”
“Get your ass in here!”
Miller rolls her eyes, flopping over to the other side of the bed and taking Max with her, tickling his belly to keep him occupied while I go get reamed by her dad.
After I handle my business in the bathroom, I meet Monty in my room, closing the adjoining door behind me.
“It’s not what it looks like,” I tell him, finding a shirt to cover up my chest.
“I don’t give a shit what it looks like. What you two do is none of my business but Ace, she’s leaving in less than two months.”
I pause in my tracks. “Why the hell does everyone feel the need to keep reminding me of that?”
“Because I’m looking out for you.”
“Well, you don’t have to do that. I only slept in there because your snoring ass was hogging my bed.”
A smile ticks on his lips.
“I’m serious, Monty. Please don’t waste your time giving me the overprotective dad speech. It isn’t needed.”
He holds his hands up. “This is not that. I just wanted to talk to you because Miller has a life she’s going back to.”
“Jesus, I know.”
“Let me finish,” he says. “Miller has a life she’s going back to, a life she’s worked her ass off for. You two are adults. Whatever you do in your free time is between you two, but I’m asking—no, I’m telling you, if there comes a time where you find yourself wanting to ask her not to go back to that life, that you talk to me first.”
What the hell? I would never ask that of her. I know what this summer is to her. She made it clear last night when she gave me a moment to stop our kiss that she’s simply passing through. She’s got her entire life’s dream waiting for her.
“It’s not like that.”
Monty shrugs. “Keep it in mind. Come to me if that changes for you.”
Chapter 18
Miller
Violet: Not to be the nagging agent, but please tell me you’ve been getting some baking done. You’ve got five weeks until your recipes are due to the magazine.
Miller: Starting today.
Violet: Starting?!
Slicing the butter over my saucepan, I keep the heat low on my single burner stovetop. It’s convenient, having a mini kitchen in my van, but the flames are a bit uneven, heating the pan at different speeds, so though I could brown butter in my sleep, I have to go low and slow when I’m experimenting in my little house on wheels.
We’ve been back in Chicago for a few days, just in time to experience the city’s first heatwave of summer. Only last week it was humid and raining, but now it’s scorching and miserable, and the van is hot as balls with the stovetop and oven roaring. But I don’t have much of a choice than to get to work on figuring out these recipes, especially on the rare times Kai has a day off from baseball the way he does today.
Max is easy, and it’s not that I can’t work while he’s awake and I’m watching him, it’s just that I don’t want to. I like hanging out with him, and I’d rather focus on our time together than stress over my endless string of failures in the kitchen.
Stirring the butter in the saucepan, I watch it melt when a knock at the door shakes my entire car.
What the hell?
Kai has never once come out here. He’ll shoot me a text when he’s about to head out the door and needs me to come inside to watch his son, and I can’t think of any reason he’d be here other than—
“Is Max okay?” My words are rushed, my voice laced with panic as I slide open the door to my van.
“He’s good,” Kai says softly, holding up the baby monitor in his hand. “Taking his first nap of the day.”
My exhale is brimming with relief—a new feeling for me. I’ve never been attached enough to worry about another’s well-being, but knowing Max’s story, knowing his mom didn’t want to be in his life, has stirred a surge of protectiveness in me.
Kai stands outside, his bare feet on the concrete path that leads from his place to mine. Loose white tee, shorts that show off how cut his legs are. Backwards hat with those damn glasses. And that smile, smirking and sweet—a new look for the pitcher.
“What’s with the aggressive knock?” I ask.
“It wasn’t aggressive. It was normal. You just live in a fucking car. I barely touched the door and it rocked.”