Chapter 8 Miller - Baggage with a side of pasta
Iturn the burner off on the stove when I hear a knock on the door. It’s faint enough that Penelope didn’t hear it from her bedroom so I’m able to make my way over without having to fight my almost six year old to open it.
And thank fucking God for that, because when I open the door I’m faced with perfection and the real life version of most of my daydreams lately.
Gwendolyn Bozelli is leaning against the doorway.
Her beautiful fucking face, with a closed lip smile that I pretend is reserved just for me, is surrounded by her thick hair that she clearly took her time curling before coming over here.
The waves fall around her cheeks, over her shoulders, and stop right where my eyes find her—for lack of a better term while my brain is short circuiting—perfect fucking rack.
I swear I’m a respectable, stand up guy.
Everyone’s body is beautiful. I put in the work to make sure objectifying women is something I never partake in.
But Gwen has this tank top thing that’s basically painted on her, and where fabric normally covers, it’s a V, and the bottom point of that V is low.
There isn’t a spot of skin on her chest that isn’t covered by cute little freckles.
I’m pretending I don’t notice the tiny balls poking from behind her shirt. I’m choosing to actively not think about Gwen with pierced nipples. That’s not something that’s my business. I fill my head with visuals of anything else to distract myself.
The jeans she has on are also tight as fuck and I know that when she blows past me, I need my vision to avert to anywhere that’s not the ass that I know is being hugged by the denim.
“Hi,” she greets me. I blink to bring myself back to reality. She doesn’t move. Normally, she’d just walk right in. I mean, this is technically her place.
“H-hi.” I just fumbled a one fucking word greeting.
Gwen’s smile opens and it reaches so far, the corners of her eyes crinkle, and it takes everything in me to not crash my mouth into hers. I don’t know what the fuck is happening to me.
This is when I realize she knows. She can fully see I’m completely struck by her standing in the doorway, and she loves it. She’s shining so bright from my attention, and I’ve barely even gotten the chance to drown her in it.
“You look beautiful, Gwen. You always look beautiful. You’re stunning.” Okay, that was a lot.
I see the skin under the freckles on her face darken as she says, “Thank you.” She moves her hand to tuck her hair behind her ear but before I know what the hell I’m doing, I find my hand stopping hers to do it myself.
Gwen’s just as shocked as I am when I pull my arm back. She quickly slides through the doorway, kicks off her sneakers, and walks to the kitchen island to place the plastic bag she brought with her onto it.
I’m still standing here with the door open like an idiot.
“Daddy, when is Red—” Penelope starts to ask from her room. I see her head poke out. “Red!” she screeches and sprints the few steps over to Gwen.
“Hello there, my favorite tiny human. I’ve been waiting to see you all day,” Gwen says.
“You should've come over sooner! Daddy let me hang posters in my room. You have to see!” Penelope releases her grip around Gwen’s waist, only to grab hold of the woman’s hand to drag her into the newly-decorated bedroom.
“You don’t need to hold me hostage, P. I’m a willing participant,” Gwen says with a laugh.
I finally shut the front door and head back to the stove to finish dinner. I can hear Penelope rambling off every member of the Heeler family to Gwen as she gives her the grand tour of her room.
When I told Penelope we were staying, she immediately jumped into her strong argument about needing her room to be perfect. She was sure to quote how I had previously told her we weren’t putting anything on the walls because this was supposed to just be temporary, but now it isn’t.
What they don’t tell you about raising a smart kid is that arguing with them is next to impossible. They always have a point and ninety percent of the time, the point is solid.
So, her new bedroom that overlooks the main street of a small town in Massachusetts is now covered in posters of a cartoon Australian cattle dog family.
Moving the rest of our stuff from our old place to here actually wasn’t terrible, entirely because we actually had help for once.
I thought about asking Sawyer but then got in my head about bothering him, so I was ready to tackle the project on my own.
I hoped to get everything at least cleaned out and in boxes in the new apartment in one weekend.
My plan didn’t unfold that way though, because Gus and Sawyer showed up unannounced bright and early that Saturday with Gus’ truck, ready to unload and unpack.
I guess I should have read more into Margot asking for a key to the apartment at Ernie’s.
She told me she wanted to do laundry because the washing machine at the cottages was acting up.
Turns out she picked up through the grapevine it was moving weekend for the Caswells and took it upon herself to put Gus and Sawyer to work.
Looking back, I should have seen this coming. But I can’t stress enough how not used to the idea of a village I am. But when I was able to hand the keys back to Ernie by the end of just one day and had everyone over for pizza and beers, I was thankful as hell.
By the time the girls finally emerge from Penelope’s bedroom, I have two bowls set with silverware in front of the two barstools at the island, and I have mine on the other side, where I’ll stand.
I’ve been trying to find a single barstool that matches these two with no luck so I’m going to end up just ordering a new set of three.
I don’t mind standing, but I know from the way Gwen scrunches her face every time we all have dinner together, she feels like she’s putting me out. I want her to feel comfortable here.
I finally got her to stop arguing with me about the seating arrangements when she’s here. I’m cool with forking over money for another stool so we don’t have to do it again.
Gwen hoists Penelope up onto her barstool before I have the chance to.
She does it without a second thought, and it feels dumb for me to think of it as big of a deal as I do, but I’ve never had anyone else helping out like this.
I don’t want to get used to it, and I don’t want her to think she’s obligated.
“Thanks, Red,” P mumbles while jamming as much pasta into her tiny mouth as she can on the first bite. The manners are there, the execution I guess needs some work.
“No choking, please,” I remind her.
I wait for Gwen to take a bite. I don’t want to get my hopes up, but I really do hope she notices a difference. I might have used company time today to Pinterest the fuck out of a sauce recipe, opting to skip the cheap store bought jar I usually use. I might be trying to impress her.
“Holyfuckingshit,” Gwen says while covering her mouth with her hand. She swallows and adds, “Miller, what the hell?”
I fork my own bite in my mouth with a smirk and look at Gwen like I haven’t the slightest clue as to what she’s talking about. She scoops up another bite. Another muffled moan. Not my intended response, but I can’t say I hate hearing it.
Penelope ignores both of us, eating and lightly kicking her little feet against the island.
“Why does this taste so good? I mean, thank you. I appreciate every meal you’ve ever made for me. But Miller, this is like, really freaking good.”
“I tried a recipe I found online. Instead of the jar.”
“For the record, I liked the jar sauce.”
“I know.” I feel my face heat up no matter how hard I fight it, and I keep my gaze down in my bowl. Maybe this was a stupid idea after all.
Gwen’s hand wraps around my wrist, and I pause. God, her skin is always so soft.
“But I hate to be the bearer of bad news and tell you I love this like, twenty times more. I promise to help next time, but we can never go back to the jar.”
We.
I’m not gonna dwell on how fucking sweet that sounds.
She still hasn’t let go of my arm.
“You got yourself a deal, Gwendolyn.”
She lets her hand rest for another moment before releasing me to continue eating.
Penelope finally voices her opinion. “I don’t know what the heck you two are talking about. Tastes the same to me.”
The small kitchen fills with laughter from all three of us, and it sounds just as fucking sweet as the idea of a we when it comes to me and Gwen.
But again, I’m not going to dwell on that.
“Moving her is not an option, Miller.”
Penelope fell asleep halfway through the movie she picked for us all to watch.
Movie night was non-negotiable the second she realized Gwen brought popcorn.
She’s snuggled up on Gwen’s lap and even though the credits are now rolling for the movie we put on after the first, Gwen still isn’t ready for me to move my daughter to bed.
“She has school in the morning,” I argue, albeit lamely.
I don’t want to have to move her either.
Seeing the two of them like this, so natural and so normal, makes my chest tighten.
I catch my left hand rubbing small circles there to loosen it.
My right hand stays firmly planted on the couch because the last time Gwen adjusted herself, her thigh rested on the tips of my fingers.
And yeah, there’s a layer of denim between my skin and hers, but it’s contact I’m not giving up right now.
Gwen looks down with my favorite soft smile at Penelope, wrapped in a big fuzzy blanket that’s covered in avocados with googly eyes. She smoothes out the top of Penelope’s hair and leans down to get close to her ear.
“Hey, sweet, tiny human,” Gwen whispers. “Daddy’s shutting the party down. We have to go brush our teeth, okay?”
Penelope’s eyes flutter open, then close. She opens them again to half moons and nods her head once in a still half asleep but will listen to anything you say state.