The warm, sweet smell of sugar hits me as soon as I’m out of the shower. It’s the same smell I’ve been greeted with every day since Miller made that banana bread. She hasn’t stopped baking, keeping my house constantly filled with fresh pies, pastries, and other desserts, and I’ve been bringing them to the field, needing to get them out of my house before I’ll no longer be able to fit into my baseball pants.
But I love it. I love seeing her work her magic in the kitchen. It’s as if she got bitten by the baking bug and can’t stop. Apparently, nothing she’s made so far is helping her with the recipes she needs to create for the Food & Wine article, but she’s genuinely happy in the kitchen again and I can’t help but note the difference on her face from the first night I found her in there, distraught from too many failed desserts.
Wrapping a towel around my waist, I turn the corner to find Max decked out in a tiny apron, sitting on the kitchen counter facing Miller as she talks to him while plopping dollops of cookie dough onto a sheet. She’s all denim today, back in her usual cutoff overalls. I’ve realized she only has maybe four or five pairs that she rotates through, but these ones might be my favorite, showing off her thick thighs.
Max catches me eavesdropping, making his blue eyes shine and his smile grow. I should go back to my room and put some clothes on, but I just want to be around them.
“What are we making today?”
“Chocolate chip cookies.” Miller keeps her back to me, continuing to portion out each one.
Cupping my son’s cheeks, I give him a kiss on his head before reaching over, about to do the same to his nanny until it hits me midair on the way to cradle the back of her head that I’m out of my fucking mind right now.
What the hell am I doing? Way too comfortable. Way too fucking comfortable.
Thankfully, she doesn’t pick up on any of that as I fist my hands back at my sides.
“Well, technically they’re M&M cookies.” She motions towards the cooling rack where a dozen cookies are ready. “You can take them to the boys at practice today.”
I’ll take them to my teammates, but no way in hell are they going to be the first ones to try them. It’s one of the perks of Miller living with me.
Next to me, I mean. Living next to me. Though I hate that she sleeps outside, and I’ve made that perfectly clear on multiple occasions.
Snagging a cookie from the cooling rack I take a bite and, not surprising in the least, they’re fucking amazing. “So good, Miller.”
That smile bursts on her face as she continues to work. I know this isn’t the high-end stuff she’s typically praised for, so the compliment might seem mute, but I see how proud she gets from knowing how much those around her love what she’s making.
There are perfectly placed M&Ms on top, and from a quick glance, you’d assume Max is helping with that part. But I’m certain, judging by his hands already inked in yellow, orange and green, that the M&Ms he’s helping with are going straight to his mouth.
I pick him up off the counter, hoping to pacify the sugar rush first thing in the morning, and finally Miller’s attention follows, looking at me for the first time today.
Her gaze starts at the arm my son is perched on, then it travels lower to where the towel meets the bare skin around my hips. I watch her trace my tattoos with her attention before her eyes bounce over my abdomen as if she’s counting each muscle on her way up to my chest.
“My eyes are up here, Montgomery.”
“Yeah, I know.”
I chuckle. “You almost done sexualizing me?”
With her eyes, she retraces the same path. “You keep walking around here in nothing but a towel and the answer to that will continue to be a resounding no.”
Finally, her attention finds mine but all she does is bite her lip and waggle her brows, never one to shy away from letting me know how attractive she finds me.
It feels really fucking good to be looked at the way she looks at me, especially by a woman like Miller. Beautiful, successful, could have any man she wants but is looking at me.
“So, what should I call these when I give them to the boys?” I change the subject. “M&M cookies?”
Miller brushes my son’s hair out of his face as he sits perched on my arm. “We’re calling them the Max and Miller cookie. The M&M cookie. Sorry, Baseball Daddy, but you’re out on this one.”
“Actually, I’m also an ‘M’. My full name is Malakai, so I guess I count too.”
“Your name is Malakai?”
I nod.
“Malakai Rhodes,” she says, as if she were testing the way it feels on her tongue. “That’s a good name.”
It’s an especially good name when she says it in that deep, raspy tone I look forward to hearing every day.
“I guess these could be named after you two then,” she continues. “M&M. Max and Malakai. That has a nice ring to it.”
And Miller.
Max and Malakai and Miller.
But I don’t say that out loud because my mind is already creating too many ridiculous scenarios seeing this woman with my son in my home, especially when she has no desire to stay.
Sundays without a game are always nice, but there’s rarely a day that goes by during the regular season that I’m not at the field. Today is an easy practice day, everyone coming to the field to work on what they need. Most of the guys get a bit of batting practice in, but I have a designated hitter who takes care of those duties for me, and I’m sure as shit not the guy who is going to be throwing out 50–60 mile per hour lobs over home plate.
These days are typically spent with me rushing through a bit of physical therapy in the training room after flying through a handful of pitch sequences, trying to get back home as quickly as possible. At least, that’s how it used to be. But over the past month, I’ve taken my time, watched my teammates bat while we all shoot the shit before I sink into my PT, letting it do what it needs to do.
There’s been a shift. I’m enjoying the game again, every part of it. I’m content, which is an odd thing to feel after stressing for the last ten months, convinced I wasn’t doing enough as a parent.
But Max is happy. I’m happy, and there’s a common denominator as to why.
“Goddamn, Trav,” my brother says in disgust. “You look like you’ve never swung a bat in your life.”
“It’s Sunday,” Travis calls over his shoulder as he squares up at the plate once again. “I’m over this. I’m tired and ready to go home.”
“New rule! You hit a homer, you get a cookie.” Cody holds up the Tupperware container full of Miller’s cookies from our side, behind the batting cage.
Travis’s brows shoot up from under his helmet before pointing his bat to left field and the next pitch that comes his way is sent sailing into that exact section. Travis tosses his batting gear and jogs over to snag a cookie, his eyes rolling back with an over-the-top moan when it melts onto his tongue.
“If I knew my daughter’s baking would’ve had you guys hitting like this, I would’ve had her overnight me desserts years ago.” Monty joins us, taking a cookie for himself.
“Hey!” Isaiah calls out. “You’ve got to hit a homer for a cookie.”
Monty levels my brother with a look. “I don’t have to do shit. I raised the girl, and I could bench your ass if I felt like it, Rhodes.”
Isaiah gestures towards the Tupperware. “Have all the cookies you’d like, sir.”
Cody guards Miller’s cookies, treating them like a sacred prize to be earned as the team turns back to face home plate, watching the next batter.
I find my way next to Monty. “You gonna ever stop scaring the shit out of my little brother?”
“Nah. That’s just how our relationship works. I love the little shit, but I don’t need him to know that.” He takes a bite of the cookie in his hand. “Goddamn. I almost forgot how good she was at this.”