We eat in silence. Well—mostly. I try to make small talk here and there. Complimenting her on the way she handled the béchamel, asking if she thinks we used enough ricotta. She answers politely, but the weight between us doesn’t lift. The food is good—great, even—but it tastes like nothing with the tension thick in the air.
After we clear our plates, I rinse everything off and pull out the ingredients for Italian soda and the frozen maritozzi my mom made months ago and left in my freezer. I plate the pastry, pour the syrup over the ice, and carry them both over.
“A peace offering for my rudeness,” I say, setting the plate and glass down in front of her.
She thanks me, still a little too quiet for my liking, and takes a sip of the soda. The second the flavors hit her, she closes her eyes and lets out a soft moan of satisfaction.
“Oh my God,” she says, voice breathy. “That’s insanely good.”
I smile for what feels like the first time all evening. “Glad something’s going right tonight.”
She looks back up at me, and for once, I don’t hold back.
“Bumper, I have to admit something.” I let out a breath. “I didn’t really fail at cooking. Hell—I could cook that meal blindfolded. I just… I wanted you to come over and eat dinner with me. So, I said the first thing I thought might get you here.”
Her eyebrows lift slightly, a flicker of something passing through her eyes. Surprise, maybe. Amusement. Warmth. She’s quiet at first, her gaze steady and unreadable.
And in that silence, all I can think is—I hope I didn’t just screw everything up again.
I think she’s shocked at my confession but stands up and walks over to me. She sits down on my lap, straddling me. My dick perks up, and I internally shake my head, thinking of anything to calm him down.
“Gabriel, you didn’t need to make up an excuse to get me to come over. I would have come over if you wanted me to. I don’t just love your daughter, I care about you too,” she says.
The desire to crush my lips into hers overwhelms me. She pulls away from the hug and licks her bottom lip. Oh, fuck it.
I grab her face, pulling it down to mine, kissing her as if it were my lifeline to live. Her mouth feels like heaven. Warm and wet. Lips like a fucking dream. Soft yet firm.
She hesitates, probably from shock, but then she melts into me, plunging her fingers into my hair.
The rational part of my brain is non-existent as I swiped my tongue over hers, pulling her body into mine as she rocked into me.
The thought of taking her to my bed was all I could think about, but when Aura cries, Millie jumps off of me as if she were being shocked.
The moment was over.
First Class Fears
MILLIE
It has beena few weeks since Gabriel and I shared thatmind-blowingkiss in his kitchen. Thank goodness Aura interrupted our little make-out sesh, or who knows how far that would’ve gone. I mean, I can’t say I wouldn’t have taken it further if it got to the point.
But now, it’s Italy time.
Today is the day we leave for Italy, and I’m already on edge. I knew I’d be nervous, but I didn’t realize just how bad it would get. I’ve been dodging the inevitable anxiety that comes with flying.
Funny thing is, I’ve never actually told Gabriel that I’m terrified of planes. I just…assumed I could somehow deal with it on my own.
And now, here I am—about to embark on a 10-hour flight, and my nerves are only making it worse. Great.
It’s gonna be worth it, Millie. Calm your ass down.I take a deep breath, mentally preparing myself for what’s coming. I don’t want to be the person who falls apart at the airport, but damn if it isn’t tempting.
I arrive at Gabriel’s house fifteen minutes before he told me tobe there—typical me—and knock a few times before letting myself in.
“Gabriel! I’m here. Do you need help getting Aura ready to go?” I shout up the stairs, hoping that he’s not too preoccupied with packing. I really don’t want to be late for this flight.
But as I wait for a response, I can feel the familiar grip of anxiety tightening in my chest. I take another deep breath, steadying myself. Flying is always a mental struggle for me. The thought of being trapped in a metal box, thousands of feet in the air, has never sat right with me. And I’ve been on three planes in my entire life, and each one worse than the last. Growing up in a coastal town, vacations didn’t require flying, so I never really had to confront it.
I pace near the front door, chewing at my bottom lip like it owes me rent. I try humming, distracting myself with Aura’s diaper bag checklist, even pretending to double-check her pacifiers, but nothing is calming me down.
