Chapter 10Good morning to me. #2
Before I panic and cancel, I take a breath and watch Mara.
Her leg swings high, and her instructor passes by, giving her a nod of solemn approval–the highest praise from the fifty-seven-year-old man.
She looks at me, beaming, so I give her a discreet thumbs up.
As much as my mom wishes she could be here for all of these, I genuinely think having me here gives Mara just as much pleasure as mom does.
Our family is close like that, and though the two are separate issues, the small interaction with my sister reminds me that I am strong and can do this.
I will take the energy of the domme from the book and use that to help Miller. I may not have an exact guide or lots of experience, but I’m smart, and can help him. I know I can.
Confidence has never been an issue for me.
I can figure things out.
Mara and I head home, and we’re getting back at the same time as Art, who is white as a sheet. Mara skips inside, oblivious to his pain because she’s on the competition practice high, so I catch him by the arm as he’s ambling up the driveway toward the back door.
“Hey, hang on,” I say, looping my arm through his. “How was work? Bad back day, huh?”
He nods, his silvering hair shining in the afternoon light. Art’s been part of my life for some time, but he’s never seemed to age as much as he has the last year. His back is getting so bad, and I hate it for him.
“Well, let's just say I was working the lumber doors, so you know how that goes for me.”
I keep a steadying hand at his back as he climbs the few stairs to the door, making sure he doesn’t know my support is there because he’d hate it if he knew.
I’m always worried he’ll fall, though, with how his back tightens up.
Once inside, I pull his chair out and bring him a mug, putting the kettle on.
From the center of the kitchen table, he takes a tea bag from the basket and readies it in his mug. “How was Mara today?” he asks finally after some much-needed sitting brings some color back to his face.
“Amazing,” I beam, taking a seat across from him. He nods, not that he doesn’t want to hear more but that he expected that to be my answer. This family shares a lot of qualities, but the four of us never stop when we decide we’re going to do something, and we go hard.
“Well, should we pick up a celebratory meal?” he asks, knowing mom has worked all day and much of the evening–when she gets home, she won’t want to cook either. Part of it is strategic, I’m sure because he’s in no shape to cook. But I have to let him down easily.
“I can grab it for you two, but I have plans tonight.”
Still somewhat pale and looking exhausted, Art manages to give me a sly grin. “Miller?”
I smack a palm against the table surface playfully. “Why did you make that comment the other night?!” I lean in and grab the honey, popping it open to add some to his mug.
“Come on, Laney girl,” he says in a “duh” tone that I really don’t understand.
“Come on, what?!” I’m genuinely at a loss as to what he’s insinuating.
He moves the tea tag to the other side of his mug, then removes his glasses, rubbing his face for a moment before replacing them.
“I saw him at the Christmas party last year. I saw him at the baby shower for Beau.” He wags a finger at me above the empty mug.
“That boy adores you. If you let him, I bet he’d worship the ground you walk on. ”
I fall back against the chair, blinking, mouth open. “What?”
“He likes you, Laney. Even I saw it, and I’m an old man!”
I hold up a finger. “First of all, you’re not old. You’re oldish.”
He laughs heartily. “Much better.”
“Second,” I add another finger, “he does not. I watched him ask out a woman a few weeks ago that was my polar opposite.”
Art looks unimpressed with my proof that Miller does not like me, and then the kettle whistles. I bring it to the table and fill his mug, lowering it to a potholder so it doesn't burn the tabletop. His mug steams, fogging his glasses a bit.
“You give him the time of day?” Art asks, sliding his glasses off to blow away the fog. His eyes meet mine as he does, and I’m confused as to why he’s wearing an expression that says “point proven” because Miller does not like me.
“We work together. I talk to him off and on all day, most days.” As the words leave my mouth, I’m reminded of the fact that I’d not realized Miller and I had texted in the past. But he remembered.
That could be nothing. Just… a fluke. I mean, he has far fewer people in his life, and therefore, he probably just remembers more.
God, I feel bad just thinking that. But there’s got to be some truth to it.
Art watches me thinking, so I roll my eyes. “We’re just friends,” I say, knowing full well we have a temporary more-than-friends arrangement.
He slides his glasses on and wraps his weathered hand around the mug, attempting to cool down his tea with a few short huffs of breath against the surface. “But he likes you, Laney. Trust me; I know what a man who adores a woman looks like.”
“You just look in the mirror, huh?” I tease, but the truth is, Art does adore my mom. And Mara. And me. He sips his tea, making a face like it burned his tongue. “Men have no patience. It’s been one minute since I poured the water. Let it cool!”
“Some men have great patience,” he says, sipping the tea, which I know has to be burning his lips. “Patience to wait for a woman to realize they’re interested.”
“Miller is not interested. ”
He lowers the mug to the table, turning his head to catch the headlights shining through the front window. “Mom’s home.”
I look at where she’s pulling into the driveway, then look back at him. “Miller’s not interested.”
His smile is slow. “You just said that. Are you trying to convince me or yourself?”
He earns himself another eye-roll for that. “I’m tired. I’m gonna go shower and take a nap.” Pushing away from the table, I feel his smirk follow me as I head to the door, opening it for my mom.
I give her a kiss on the cheek as she enters, exhausted but smiling. “How was it this morning? Where’s Mara?”
I nod to the hall. “In her room. It was good. She did great.” I look back at Art and narrow my eyes glaring at him as if to warn him not to put ideas in mom’s head about Miller and me.
Mom’s always wanting me to find a good man to settle down with–she knows it’s what I want, and she just wants me to have everything I’ve dreamed of.
But I don’t want her getting hopeful when this is just…
friends with a situationship on the side, temporarily, nothing more.
“I’m taking a shower, then a nap. Going to Miller’s later.”
She nods, thinking nothing of it because she both trusts and adores Miller, and I’m sure, like me, knows he is not at all interested. “You eating there or here?”
I point to the floor.
“Good, I’m making Chinese Chicken Salad,” she says, raising the plastic bag in her hand between us.
“The one with the crunched ramen noodles and slivered almonds?” I ask with high hopes because that is one of my favorite salads. She nods. “Good.”
“Hello, my love,” Art calls from the kitchen. Mom smiles at him around me before stroking a hand through my unruly curls, the way she always does when she gets home.
“His back is bad today,” I whisper, earning me a small smile of acknowledgement from mom. Then, she makes her way to her husband and plants a huge kiss on his head, unloading the grocery bag.
I head to the shower, trying to imagine myself coming home after a long day of work to… Miller.
The weird thing is… I can picture it.
The light next to Miller’s front door isn’t flickering tonight, and I got some weird sense of satisfaction parking in his assigned spot. It felt very… coupley.
I’ve never really been part of a couple, so even the little details are hugely romantic to me. I listened to a book last month where the hero gave the heroine a key to his house and she was upset. She wanted to move in, not just have a key.
To me, the idea that someone would give you a key to access their safe place… that’s more personal to me than living together. You can enter and find them in any part of their personal downtime… any time. Giving someone a key to me says, I want you to be able to have and see all of me, any time.
I would never be disappointed by that.
I stare at the lock on Miller’s door, analyzing the grooves as I listen to his footsteps grow nearer.
My pulse picks up as the deadbolt turns on the other side of the door, and then it whooshes open, drenching me in the scent of Miller’s cologne and his home, the warmth from inside wrapping around me, nearly pulling me in .
Except, he pulls me in first.
By the hand, fingers weaved together with mine, he helps me inside and closes the door, locking it one-handed. Then we’re just standing there, me cold from the outside, him warm from the inside, holding hands, eyes locked.
I want to kiss him. I do. But we’re not technically in a lesson right now, so I can’t.
“Hi,” I say, my voice unexpectedly light.
“Hi,” he says, his voice rougher than usual.
Neither of our hands releases and instead, he squeezes mine. “You’re cold,” he notices, bringing our linked hands to his other. He sandwiches mine in his, rubbing to warm it up. And then my lower half tightens and my pussy clenches as he lifts our hands to his lips, blowing.
I’ve never had a man warm my hands up while looking into my eyes this way, and it’s… holy shit, it’s subtle, and it’s everything.
“Let’s sit.” He leads me to the couch, which is quickly becoming our spot, though, in a part of my brain that I do not acknowledge, I think any spot with him is a good spot. He releases my hand so I can shrug out of my coat, then takes it back quickly.
We sit close again, our thighs not just touching but pressed together with some pressure. I clear my throat to distract my body from how warm and tingly it's getting at the last minute.