She smiles down at her notepad, and for a minute, we sit there without needing to fill the space between us. Then the door to the main room swings open, and the smell hits me like a suckerpunch to the solar plexus. Vanilla, brown butter, and something warm and sweet enough to curl through the clubhouse before I even see where it’s coming from.
I keep my attention on Victoria at first.
Make myself hold it there. Count out a few seconds, like it’ll make a difference.
It probably makes the hesitation more obvious than just reacting would have.
Eventually, I give in and lift my gaze to look.
And the sight takes my fucking breath away.
Chapter Three
WILL
Millie comes through the door with a large covered tray balanced against her hip, her attention on keeping it level.
Her dark hair is pulled back in a loose tie that never quite manages to contain it, soft strands escaping around her face like they’ve given up on discipline the same way she sometimes does. There’s a faint smudge of flour along her forearm that she either doesn’t know about or has decided isn’t worth addressing.
Her eyes lift when she adjusts her grip, long lashes catching the light as the warm hazel beneath turns molten for a second, rich and deep, like something drawn straight from the earth her father works. She’s wearing a soft rust-colored cardigan that makes the warmth in her skin glow richer, deeper, like sun-baked clay. The color pulls every subtle gold tone forward, turning something already striking into something that feels… deliberate.
Her mouth presses slightly while she concentrates, full lips set in determination rather than frustration. She doesn’t rush, never does. She moves with that same easy steadiness that comes from growing up around heavy machinery, long days, and hardworking men who taught her strength didn’t need to be loud to matter.
Fuck she is stunning.
An easy beauty that doesn’t even have to try. Even in jeans, a simple blouse, and a cardigan, she makes me fucking breathless. She moves through the main room like she belongs here, slipping between brothers and furniture with the kind of natural ease that only comes from years of this place wrapping itself around her without anybody realizing it was happening.
I notice.
Ialwaysnotice.
She spots Victoria first, and her whole face changes. That polite, put-together expression she wears around most people slips away, replaced by something real, warm, and completely unguarded. The softer side of her, she doesn’t hand out to just anybody.
“Brown butter snickerdoodles and lemon bars,” she announces, setting the tray on the coffee table with careful attention, like this actually matters to her. “I know you’ve been on a lemon kick, and the snickerdoodles just seemed right for February.”
“Millie,” Victoria says it with a kind of reverence, like she’s been dealing with very specific cravings for weeks. “You are my absolutefavoriteperson in this entire fucking building.”
“What about Sin?”
“Sin doesn’t bring me lemon bars. Sin brings me unsolicited opinions about what I should be eating instead of lemon bars.” She lifts the edge of the tray cover, and the smell intensifies to something frankly unreasonable. “These are perfect. Sit down. Tell meeverything.”
It is at approximately this moment that Millie looks across and finds me.
And that look lasts maybe a second and a half.
In that second and a half, I watch her go through something, a small, contained recalibration, the way a compass needle shakes before it finds north. Then she smiles, and it’s real, just softer around the edges in the way her smiles sometimes get when she’s carrying something heavier underneath them.
“Hey,” she says.
“Hey,” I reply.
Victoria looks between us with the kind of calm you only get after spending enough years around idiots making terrible decisions, so that nothing surprises you anymore.
Millie pulls off her jacket and settles into the armchair across from the sofa, curling her legs up beneath her the way she does when she’s staying a while.
She’s comfortable here.
Genuinely.
