Caught Up (Windy City, #3)

Miller doesn’t allow me to show her how I really feel about her, so the best I can do is tell her through my actions. Support her dreams, help her chase everything she wants. I’ll continue to do just that as much as it’ll kill me in the end because unfortunately, I’m well aware that a simple life with me and my son would never be enough for her.

“I remember,” I say. “But that’s not what this is for her. She has so many opportunities waiting for her when she gets back to work.”

Monty gives me an understanding nod. “What time should I be over tonight? Make sure it’s early enough that Max is still awake. I want to see my little guy.”

“Six?”

“I’ll be there.”

Once again, I stand to leave, but my eyes are drawn to the picture sitting on Monty’s desk. Miller in her bright yellow softball uniform, kneeling with a pitcher’s glove on her knee.

“How many of those do you have?” I gesture to the frame. I know he has one at home, this one at his Chicago office, and one he keeps in his travel bag for road games. I think he might even have one in his wallet.

“I don’t know. Three or four.”

“Why?”

“Why do you have a photo of Max in your hat?”

Touché.

“To remind me of what’s important when the stress from work or life starts to become too much.”

“Exactly.”

Without hesitation or asking for permission, I take the frame off his desk and unclip the back. The photo is small, maybe only two or three inches in height and fits perfectly next to the one of Max in my hat.

Monty stays silent as I put the empty frame back on his desk.

“Shut up.”

He laughs. “I didn’t say anything.”

I tuck the photo of Miller under the band, close to the one of Max, running my thumb over both of the edges. “How old was she here?”

“Thirteen maybe?”

“She looks happy.”

“She was. She was a really happy kid, much in the way yours is.”

Monty slides in the gentle reminder that I’m doing okay. It’s his way of reassuring me that Max is all right. That I’m doing a good job, just like he did. But I’m only doing a good job right now because of the girl in the photo next to my son’s.

I put my hat back on and leave his office.



My hands are full of groceries by the time I make it home. The house is empty and quiet, so after I set the shopping bags on the kitchen island, I make my way to the backyard in search of Max and Miller.

My son’s laughter echoes off the glass of the back slider, and I open it to find him in nothing but a diaper at his water table, splashing and clapping for himself when he dumps water from one small bucket into another slightly larger one. Miller sits on the ground and claps with him, cheering him on as he drenches himself in water, perfect for a hot August day.

When she catches my eye as I stand on the back porch, she offers me a small wave. Max follows her hand and, with a beaming smile on his face, takes off in my direction, arms up above his head as he races towards me.

“There’s my boy.”

“Dadda,” he squeals.

I gather his wet little body in my arms, hoisting him up to sit on my forearm. Miller follows behind, and when I kiss my son, I’m beyond tempted to lean over and kiss her too. This is a normal, everyday moment, one I want to seal into my memories because these are the moments that matter.

But I don’t seal it with a kiss because the soft, easy kisses are against the rules for her.

I nod towards the house. “Come.”

“Malakai,” she scolds. “Inappropriate.”

Shaking my head, I let her pass by us, giving her a slap on the ass. “Get your dirty mind inside.”

She finds the groceries on the counter. “Do you need help putting these away?”

I give her a second to rifle through them. She pulls out more flour, sugar, brown sugar, and milk. The best chocolate I could find from a local baking store. I purchased the most expensive vanilla extract on the shelf. I bought every kind of fruit the store had to offer.

“Nana!” Max hollers when she pulls out a bunch.

“What are you making?” she asks.

“I’m not. You are.”

“I’m making what?”

“Whatever you feel like.” I adjust Max in my arms. At almost seventeen months, he’s starting to get heavy. “You haven’t had time to create because we’ve been on the road so much, so I’m taking care of Max tonight and you’re going to get to work. I know you do better in the kitchen when you get to see someone try your desserts and gauge their reaction. I figured maybe you should go back to what makes you happy, and bake for the people you care about, so a few of the guys from the team are coming over. Your dad too. Whatever you feel like making, we’ll feel like eating.”

She doesn’t say anything, simply stares at the groceries.

“I hope that’s okay.”

Miller’s nose takes on a rosy hue, but that girl doesn’t cry. “More than okay.” She turns to me with a crooked smile. “Thank you, Kai.”

“It’s the least I can do after stealing you away all summer.”

She looks too soft, too vulnerable for me to resist, so I break her rules by cupping her head to pull her into my chest, placing a kiss on the top of her hair. Max, in my other arm, catches on and flops his body in half to place a sloppy one on her head as well.

She laughs, looking up to find my very proud son. “Thanks, Bug.”





Chapter 27


Miller


Violet: Please tell me you’ve got your new recipes locked in and you’re back on track in the kitchen? Also, the Food & Wine photoshoot is happening next Tuesday. They’ll be at the house at 6 a.m. to set up.

Me: Finalizing those recipes tonight. Kai planned a whole thing for me. It’s really sweet. And Tuesday doesn’t work.

Kai has a road game.

Violet: Can’t you stay back from one? I’m sure he can handle one trip on his own. This is important.

Me: No, I can’t miss it. How’s that following Friday?

Violet: I’ll check with the shoot coordinator. Chef Maven asked me what day you’re planning to be in California. Can I confirm that it’s the 1st? You’ll be starting your drive from Chicago on Sunday the 29th, correct?

Me: Right. In two weeks.

Violet: Thank God. The food world is missing you, Miller. I have an inbox full of emails from food bloggers wanting to interview you about your little summer hiatus, not to mention I’ve already added another year of consulting gigs onto your schedule in the past couple of weeks!

Me: Great. Can’t wait.

Violet: Your sarcasm is loud and clear, but you’re blowing up right now, Chef. This is exciting. It’s only the start of it all for you. See you in two weeks!



“That’s the one,” Isaiah declares, pointing to the final plate I put in front of him.

He’s deemed every single one of my desserts as “the one” tonight.

Cody moans around a mouthful, Travis’s eyes go wide, and my dad is simply wearing a proud smile as he has all night. I’ve found myself looking for his approval first before checking in with everyone else.

“What’s that one?” Isaiah takes another mouthful before going in for his third bite, but Kai knocks his spoon out of the way to fill his own because he hasn’t had the chance to try it yet.

I wipe my hands on the towel that’s draped over my shoulder. “That is a lemon curd glazed with strawberry. That slight shock you feel on your tongue is a homemade pop rock, paired with a rosé sorbet. There’s also a bit of Voatsiperifery pepper in there which is a peppercorn that has a bit more herbal and floral notes to it. It’s typically reserved for cooking, but I think it pairs well with the lemon.”

The boys all stop their chewing, looking at me as if I’ve grown a second head. When I talk about a dessert with colleagues, I’m understood, but when I explain to others outside of the industry, it’s as if I’m speaking another language to them.

“I have no idea what that means,” Isaiah says. “But it’s amazing and you should do this for the magazine.”