The three dots pop up again. My pulse spikes like I’m the one being threatened.
Mia
Go meet Principal Julian. She must be waiting for you.
Something will be waiting for you too, once you’re done. I promise. Now go.
I exhale hard through my nose.
Preston
See you later, Trouble. Hear you sooner. ;)
The meeting goes smoother than I deserve. Thanks to Mia, who loaded my phone with talking points from the obvious to the things I never would’ve thought to bring it up myself. I still can’t believe she’s never formally taken care of a kid before.
She did mention helping raise her younger brother—that must be where these instincts come from.
I rush home an hour and a half later, full of hope and plans, only to find… no one there.
Is she lost inside Liam’s ginormous new property? Did they have a second viewing? I can’t be sure.
I’m about to press send on a ‘Where are you?’ message when the answer comes in the form of a doorbell.
Has she forgotten her keys?
I run to the door more excited than a rescue puppy, fling it open, and am hit in the chest with disappointment.
Standing there is the new trainer, whose name I’ve forgotten because my eternal erection deleted all critical memory slots.
Behind him: Mia.
Behind her: a very fashionable woman in thick frames. She must be the interior designer. Also unnamed. Equally unwelcome.
An alarm blares from my phone with one of Mia’s migraine-inducing alerts.
I glance down. “YAY! GYM TIME!” flashes across the screen, surrounded by weightlifting emojis.
I rub my face and utter my most sincere thought out loud, “Fuck, no.”
Mia breezes past the trainer, bumps my hip with hers, then calls back to the group, “What he means is, ‘welcome everybody!’”
I’m still standing there, basically a bouncer with a boner, while our guests politely wait to be let in.
Mia extends a hand to the trainer. “Hi, Linc. I’m Mia. We spoke on the phone.”
Then she turns back to me, and her gaze drops to my crotch.
She cackles.
Full-body, no-shame, can’t-stop-cackling at my very public, very unresolved situation.
“Please don’t injure our guests with that,” she whispers for my ears only. Her eyes glint. “Oh my God, Preston. Don’t hurtmeeither.”
She nudges me backward, and I stumble, red-faced, morally compromised.
She waves the guests toward the living room. “Make yourselves at home. Please give me a minute to get things ready.”
Then she leans into me, lowering her voice. “You? Go change. Splash cold water on your face. Careful, Doctor. Orthat third leg’s gonna throw you off your center of gravity.” She’s wiping tears now. The woman is cracking up at her own jokes and my state. “You’ve got a session, and then the designer will be waiting for you right after.”
