I kissed his jaw, his cheek, the corner of his mouth. “Good boy.”
He laughed breathlessly, still buried inside me, forehead resting against mine. “You’re gonna be the death of me, woman.”
“Probably.” I traced the fresh ink of my name on his bicep with one finger. “But at least you’ll die happy.”
“Touché.” He pulled back enough to look at me, grey eyes searching my face. Something shifted there — something raw and unguarded. “I meant what I said. I’m not fucking around on you. Not on tour, not ever.”
“Milo—”
“I’m serious.” His hand came up to cup my face, thumb brushing my cheekbone. “Ain’t no one for me but you.”
I smiled, turning my head to kiss his palm. “Promise?”
“I promise.”
“I swear you are the only person who watches Home Alone in July,” I said as I brought a tub of chocolate-chip ice cream to Mary. She was in one of my band t-shirts, bundled up under a blanket on the couch. “I can turn down the AC if you’re cold,” I said as she took the tub from me.
Mary shook her head. “No. I’m fine.”
“You sure?” I reached to check her forehead.
She swatted my hand away playfully. “I’m not sick, Milo. I’m just...” She trailed off, pulling the blanket tighter around her shoulders as Kevin McCallister screamed on the TV screen.
“Just what?” I settled onto the couch beside her, placing my arm around her shoulders.
“Simulating winter,” she mumbled, digging the spoon into the ice cream, not meeting my eyes.
I laughed softly, pressing a kiss to her temple. “Pretty sure Louisiana in winter is exactly the same as it is in July.”
She finally looked at me, a small smile tugging at her lips. “Shut up. You grew up in California. You don’t get an opinion on Louisiana weather.”
“I’ve been here for more than seven years,” I told her, watching the spoon disappear between her lips. “Pretty sure I’m an official New Orleanian now.”
“Nope. Still don’t have an accent.”
“Fair point.” I ran my hand down her hair, feeling the silkiness under my fingers. “So why Home Alone? Feeling nostalgic?”
“Maybe.” She shrugged, settling deeper into my side. “My mom used to let me watch it every Christmas Eve. We’d make hot chocolate, and she’d let me stay up past midnight.” Her voice went soft. “Before everything went to shit.”
I tightened my arm around her. Mary didn’t talk about her mother much — just that she’d died when Mary was sixteen, leaving her with a father who drank himself into oblivion and a mountain of debt she’d been climbing out of ever since.
“She would’ve liked you,” Mary said suddenly.
“Yeah?”
“Mm-hmm. She had a thing for musicians. That’s how she ended up with my dad — he used to play guitar at this shitty bar on Bourbon Street.” She took another bite of ice cream. “Before the drinking got bad, he was actually pretty good. Like touring the tri-states area good.”
On screen, Kevin was setting up elaborate booby traps. Mary laughed at something — the paint cans, maybe — and the sound wrapped around my chest like a fist.
“We should go somewhere,” I said.
She turned to look at me. “Like where?”
“I don’t know. Anywhere you want.” I traced circles on her shoulder through the t-shirt. “Paris. Tokyo. Fucking Iceland if you want to see the Northern Lights.”
“Milo, that’s insane—”
“Why? I’ve got nothing on the roster for the next year.” I grabbed the remote and paused Kevin mid-scream. “Come on, doll. When’s the last time you left Louisiana?”
