She forces a smile, but it doesn’t look right. It’s not light, devilish, or dirty. I don’t recognize it at all.
I’ve seen Miller upset about work before, but mostly when she’s having trouble in the kitchen. This stress on her face doesn’t seem to be the same as that previous version. I can feel the distance she’s putting up even though she’s less than a foot from me, and that distance only grows when she says, “I’m going to get some sleep. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
And she closes the door on me.
What the hell was with that phone call?
Miller is the fun one. The wild one. The one who knows how to let loose when I’m too overwhelmed about life. So, an hour later, while I’m lying in the dark and see the crack of light under our door still shining from her room, I pull my phone out to text my brother.
Me: You awake?
Isaiah: Yeah.
Me: You alone or do you have company over?
It’s my brother. I’ve got to ask.
Isaiah: Alone. I’m changing my ways, remember?
Me: Sure. Would you mind coming over and hanging with Max for an hour or so? He’s already asleep and I need to get Miller out of her room.
Isaiah: Sounds kinky. Does Monty know you’re sneaking his daughter out of the hotel right under his nose?
Me: Please shut up. Are you coming over or not?
Isaiah: Geez. You go forty-eight hours without getting laid and you’re a grouch again. Yes, I’m coming over.
The door between our rooms is unlocked. It hasn’t been locked in weeks, so I open it to find a wide-awake Miller sitting at the desk with her laptop open and notepad covered in messy scribbles. She’s got one foot on the chair as she rests her chin on her knee, espresso brown hair pulled up in a knot as the light from the computer illuminates her face. She’s sitting so close, as if hoping whatever information is on the screen will magically transfer to her brain, and even from the doorway, I can tell she’s stressing over recipes.
“Mills, put your bathing suit on. You’re coming with me.”
She whips around. “Why?”
“Because I need to loosen my shoulder in the pool.”
“But—” She gestures towards her computer.
“You don’t have to put your suit on, but you’re coming with me. In fact, I prefer you naked anyway.”
She chuckles, rolling her eyes as she closes her computer. “Fine.”
Once Isaiah is settled in my room, Miller and I find the pool. I thought this one would be an indoor one, seeing as Boston freezes over in the winter, but it’s outside and on the rooftop.
She’s in that forest green swimsuit again, and now that I know what’s underneath, I refuse to hide my gawking as she leaves her towel on a chair and walks her ass to the pool. Her hips sway, her thick thighs rubbing together with every step, fucking mouthwatering with all that tanned and tatted skin.
“This is exactly why I needed you to come with me. This is the kind of motivation I was looking for.”
“So you brought me out here just to objectify me?” she asks as she slips into the water.
“Yeah . . . obviously.”
I follow behind, trying to adjust my growing erection in my swim trunks, but there’s not a chance in hell it’s going away being this close to her almost naked body now that I know what it feels like to be inside of her.
It’s dark out and the pool is closed, but breaking and entering a hotel pool is nothing new for either of us.
Miller stays in the shallow end where she can stand, and I do a couple of leisurely laps while I allow her a moment to be in her head. I’m going to get in there in a minute anyway.
She’s sitting on the top step of the pool stairs when I make it back to her.
“I need you to get more tattoos,” she states as I crest the water.
“Where did that come from?”
“Just from looking at you. They look good on your skin.”
“Well.” I wade through the water to her. “I need you to wear less clothes.”
“Where did that come from?”
I shrug. “Just from looking at you.”
She smiles, a bit of that previous stress gone for a moment.
“Want to talk about it?” I ask, pushing my wet hair back.
“No.”
“Okay. Why don’t you talk about it anyway.” Pulling her off the step, my fingers slide down her forearms, fiddling with her hands, and maybe it’s because they’re under the water or because no one else is here to see it, but she gives in to the physical contact.
Pressing my luck, I lean back on the ledge, ushering her to stand in front of me. I wrap my arms around her waist from behind, holding her close when she says, “I have to go to LA.”
I freeze, panic zipping through me. “But you said—”
“Not for good. I’ll be back, but the photographer for the magazine cover needs to get the photos shot and edited before September. I’ll do the interview when I get back to work, but the magazine issue is releasing only two weeks later, I guess.”
She drops her head back against my chest as if she’s falling with defeat.
I don’t like this. The idea of her leaving doesn’t sit right. What if she gets there and doesn’t want to come back? What if she gets back to her real life and realizes she’s done passing through Chicago?
Wracking my brain, I search for a solution. “You have to be in that particular kitchen for the shoot?”
“No, but I don’t have any kitchen connections in Chicago.”
“Use mine.”
Her head whips back as she looks up at me.
“Would mine work? It’s just for photos, right? You said it yourself, it’s nice to look at.”
She furrows her brow. “Yes, but—”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Kai, are you sure? There’s going to be a whole team of people involved. They’ll take over your house for an entire day.”
“If it keeps you from leaving then yes, I’m sure.”
Miller’s eyes soften, tracing my face before she exhales and falls against me again, but this time it’s with relief. “Thank you.”
Now that she’s a bit more relaxed, I let my hands wander under the water, skimming against her ribs. “That’s what had you so stressed out? That’s no big deal.”
“I think I forgot about what’s waiting for me after this. What if I never get it back, Kai? What if I’m not good enough anymore? I’ve spent my whole life chasing this career and to end up where? Making chocolate chip cookies and banana bread for a baseball team? God.” She buries her face in her hands. “This is too important for me to be fucking around all summer. I should’ve been focusing on work, and now it’s coming up so fast and I have nothing prepared. I’m going to get eaten alive by critics and—”
“Hey,” I soothe, running my hands up her arms to pull them away from her face. “Take a deep breath.”
She does as I say while I trail my palms up to her shoulders, feeling the tension bunched there. I knead her flesh. “You’re supposed to be the fun one, remember? I’m the one who stresses.”
She huffs a laugh, a bit of tension dissolving, but not enough.
I won’t lie. Her words kind of make me feel like shit. I’m the reason she hasn’t been able to work or practice in the kitchen. We’ve been distracting her all summer, keeping her away from this world she’s worked so hard to succeed in, and now she’s panicking because the weeks she was supposed to have been regaining her confidence in the kitchen, she’s spent traveling with my team and taking care of my son.