“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?