The boy just tore his hand from his mother’s and started running, hands up in the air waving.
High turned to look and saw Millie in the hall, beaming at her niece and nephew, her hands up in the air waving like Freddie’s before she dropped to a squat and they both hit her, dead-on, taking her right to her ass.
She didn’t care.
Fuck no.
Her laughter rang through the room, filled with joy, her face saturated with it—the first hint he had of his old Millie since he’d seen her again—as they crawled all over her and she wrapped herself in them, hugging them, holding them, tickling them.
Loving on them.
Christ.
Christ.
He thought he got it. He was sure he understood what she did to tear them apart.
He didn’t get it.
Not until then. Not until he watched that. Not until he felt the memories of a million moments just like that he’d had with his own girls.
It was only then he got it.
She’d saved him from this. She’d saved him from having to watch her never having this with their kids. She’d saved him from having to watch her only getting it when she got her hit of Dot’s kids.
And she’d given him his own.
It was all the same as what he thought he got but witnessing it made it more acute.
So yeah, now he really fucking got it.
And it killed.
“Kids! For goodness’ sake! Get off your aunt Millie! You’ve got her pinned to the floor in her pajamas!” Dottie demanded, shoving in.
“Jesus.” He heard a man mutter, and he slowly turned back to the door as Dot’s husband stood outside it, not moving, and went on critically, “Knew you were a biker but you’re rough.”
High took in the big man with dark hair clipped short, undoubtedly due to that making it zero maintenance. He was wearing a white thermal under a padded flannel shirt, faded jeans, scuffed, worn work boots, and the stubble on his face said he hadn’t used a razor in, High’s guess, at least three weeks.
High then extended his hand and replied, “Right. You’re pot. Nice ta meet you. I’m kettle.”
The man’s eyes narrowed.
Dot burst out laughing.
High dropped his hand that was ignored.
“Auntie Millie!” the little girl cried in despair. “Your boyfriend’s name is kettle?”
“Boyfriend?” the boy asked in disgust, his attention coming back to High and it was not difficult to see the kid found him lacking.
“Alan, honey, do me a big favor and shut the door on that cold,” Dottie called. “And, no, I told you. That’s your uncle Logan,” she said to her kids. Then she kept talking. “So okay, how about we take this into the house where there’s coffee?” She looked at her sister, who was pulling herself up from the floor. “Alan insisted we come, not call, to check in on you. Sorry we’re interrupting but whatever. We’re here now and I’m two cups down since it took us twice as long as it normally does to get here on those blasted roads.”
“I—” Millie started, but her attention came back to High when he had to shift back, something he did only slightly, to let in her brother-in-law.
When the man was in, High shut the door while the little girl asked her aunt, “Did you bring us presents from France?”
“Did I bring you presents from France,” Millie replied. Not a question, a scoffing astonishment. “I can barely go to the drugstore and not get you presents.”
“Yay!” the girl screeched.
All this went on while High and Dot’s husband faced off in the hall.
Dot had caved when he’d confronted her. As she would. She’d been there. She knew.
This guy, High had his work cut out for him.
Their face-off continued until the little boy announced, “You’re not Auntie Millie’s boyfriend. I am.”
High looked down at the kid whose face was now twisted with dislike and outrage and, fuck him, but he couldn’t beat back the smile.
“You’re not my boyfriend, sweetheart,” Millie said. “You’re my nephew.”
The boy looked to his aunt and snapped, “Same thing.”
If High didn’t know they were already close, what happened next would prove it.
“We’re making waffles,” Millie announced, adeptly dealing with the kid’s attitude by offering food. “Who wants waffles?”
The kid’s stomach was obviously more important than his claim on his aunt because he forgot about his issue with High and yelled, “Me!”
The girl started jumping around, also yelling, “Me too! I love waffles.”
“You guys had oatmeal at home,” Dottie said, herding her kids into the house.
“That wore off like ages ago,” the boy replied, pulling away from his mother and dashing into the living room, following his aunt, so intent on doing it that his arms were pumping in an effort to give him more speed.
They disappeared.
With that distraction gone, High turned back to Alan and was again confronted with a wall of attitude, the adult kind he didn’t like all that much.
It didn’t sit well with him because this guy didn’t get it and was making judgments that weren’t his to make.
But that didn’t matter.
It was High who was going to have to make the effort.
“It means a lot you give a shit,” he said low. “And as you can see, she’s doin’ good. And so you know, I get it may take time and I’ll put in the time but in the end, you’ll know I got this.”
“You fuckin’ better,” Alan replied, and High had to remind himself it was good Millie had people who cared in her life, as that was all the guy gave him before he prowled away.
He looked to his feet, sighed, then looked up again when he heard little Freddie shout, “Bacon! Yee ha!”
And High steeled himself against what he knew would be all good at the same time it was pure torture as he walked out of the foyer toward the living room, hearing Millie ask, “Okay, who’s going to help man the waffle iron and who’s gonna help fry the bacon?”
She got two, “Waffle irons!”