Page 52

We win the series against Pittsburgh and return home to Philadelphia as the division leader. It’s still early days, and the standings will change, but it makes me feel shitty that I was such an asshole.

I mean…I’m always an asshole, but I didn’t have a whole lot of faith in this team that we could win.

And look at us. We’re doing well.

In my hatred for what happened with Brett and the subsequent trade, maybe I didn’t want to see the possibilities.

Now, I’m open to them.

Or, more like I’m willing to be open to the possibilities.

Hell, I’m in such a good mood, I’m even looking forward to seeing Harold.

That fucking bird.

But when I open the door and find Millie in my home, I am stunned.

In the best way.

Frozen in place, I take her in from head to toes. Her red hair pulled back into a loose ponytail, strands of it hanging by her ears. A tank top that she’s definitely not wearing a bra with and drawstring shorts that are tied in a bow I can barely wrap my mind around. My imagination runs wild with how easily I could undo that bow and pull down the flimsy excuse for clothing. She’s barefoot, as usual, and because she’s standing, I have a perfect view of her legs, freckles dotting her skin, and the way her toes repeatedly flex and curl. She’s nervous, and I force my attention back to her face. Bare of makeup, but her lips have that naturally rosebud-pink color. I think it would match the most intimate parts of her.

And I wish every time I came home, it was to this.

To her.

Millie.

My Millie.

If only she didn’t look so worried. Her eyes are rimmed with red, thumb rubbing over her knuckle. Her body buzzing with tension.

I drop my bag by the door and kick off my shoes. “You okay?”

She takes a breath that raises her shoulders, and she shakes her head.

“What’s wrong?” I take a step toward her. “Is your mom all right? What do you⁠—”

“She was sent a letter from the hospital that all of her bills were paid in full due to the Santiago-Cruz Ashwood Endowment.”

“Oh.” I scratch at my beard, not sure if she’s mad I overstepped or upset because she wanted to pay on her own, even though they’re already in so much debt, it would have taken her years. Decades, probably. Or maybe she’s annoyed because I didn’t ask her to help me. She is my assistant after all, and sorting out all of the paperwork would be something an assistant would do, but… “I was talking to Yadi a couple of weeks ago and his girlfriend’s grandfather passed from lung cancer, and he said he wanted to do something to help families. It was really all Yadi. He’s the one who⁠—”

Without warning, she takes off, running and jumping at me so I barely have time to catch her, and I need to rearrange my hold on her so that she can wrap her legs around my waist. I pin her to me with my forearms banded across her back, and she tucks her head against my neck. A moment later, I feel her tears and then the brush of her lips over my skin when she whispers, “Thank you.”

I breathe out in relief that I didn’t add to her stress and squeeze her tight. She seems to appreciate a firm embrace, and I stand there, in the middle of the entryway, holding her as long as she needs. Allowing her to cling to me, to cry on my shoulder, and it is the most important thing I’ve done in a long time. If ever.

“I’m sorry,” she says with a sniff, loosening her hold to slide down my body, and I try to ignore how her stiff nipples feel dragging along my chest, her smooth legs rubbing along mine. As soon as her feet hit the floor, she backs away a few inches, though I don’t let her go, and she tries on a smile. “I didn’t mean to attack you like that.”

“It’s okay.” I smooth back her hair, her skin damp and pink from crying, and she leans into my touch like a cat, so I keep combing my fingers over her head, tucking loose strands behind her ears, skimming my knuckles over the shell of her ear. “I like when you’re here. When I come home to you.”

The unthinking confession removes a weight from the center of my chest. As if my body has been waiting for my brain to catch up to what it already knew.

“I hate crying.” She rubs under her eyes, and I use the hem of my T-shirt to dab there and under her nose.

“Why?”

“It makes me feel out of control. When I was really little, I used to cry a lot in school, and I remember my teachers telling me I shouldn’t, that I was being overly emotional. So I stopped. I stopped crying in front of people.” She lifts her doe eyes to me. “Except you, apparently. First at the baseball clinic, then on the phone the other day, and now this… You probably think I’m being dramatic.”

“No. Never. And even if you were being dramatic, you have every right to be.”