Chapter 53
CHAPTER FIFTY-THREE
mia
Making a detour to my room, I peel off my clothes and throw on a robe. Before I tie it shut, I catch myself in the mirror. The robe slips right back down to the floor because, apparently, I’m staring now.
And for once, it’s not to rip myself apart. It’s not to find the angle where I look smaller or to zero in on stretch marks.
It’s just… me. And I’m not hating it.
Yes, I’m bigger than ‘average,’ but average by whom? Not the man waiting for me upstairs. He can’t keep his hands off all I see. And I’m… seeing myself a bit differently now.
My boobs are full and overflow my palms when I hold them.
I used to think that was a disaster—spent years smashing them into minimizer bras so they wouldn’t draw attention.
But Pres feasts on them, licks and sucks until a live wire runs from my nipples to my clit.
I roll them between my fingers, stopping only when they’re hard and aching for Preston’s mouth.
They look even prouder this way, and that’s exactly how I want them to be when I drop this robe again in front of him.
It’s wild that my brain isn’t tearing me down.
Instead, it’s collecting evidence. Proof that soft is sexy.
That my curves are worship material. The mirror is reminding me that the skin I used to curse is the same one Pres can’t stop kissing.
His praise has short-circuited years of bullshit, rewired something I didn’t know could be fixed.
The mirror isn’t a firing squad tonight.
It’s just showing… me. And I actually like what I see.
I pad down the hall, up the stairs, enter his room and push the bathroom door open.
He’s already there, sleeves rolled up, steam rising around him as if he personally designed the atmosphere.
Candles lit, bubbles piled high, towels stacked military-perfect on top of the heater.
And him—leaning against the wall, watching me as though I’m dusted in starlight.
I hold out one end of the robe’s tie for him, offering myself as a gift, his to unwrap.
He takes his time, tugging the knot open slowly enough for my skin to warm up in anticipation.
His hands slip inside, caressing my shoulders until the robe hits the floor.
His eyes drink me in with such devotion, it tells me the mirror was right before: my body is his favorite thing in the world.
Something in me straightens, lifts. I stand taller under the weight of his stare, proud instead of apologetic. Confidence buzzes through me like champagne, and I test the water with the tips of my fingers before dipping a foot in.
Preston is as smart as he is a control freak. No amount of begging, bargaining, or strategic pouting gets me his list until those fingers work their magic into my neck and shoulders, leaving me floating for reasons that have nothing to do with being in the water.
Only after he tells me about his day and beams at my reluctant admission that I updated my resume, does he finally hand over his list. The creases in the paper attest that it’s been folded and unfolded too many times to count, and I revel in his anxiety.
It feels good not being the only one with a thundering heart, afraid it might stir waves in this bathtub.
Not knowing what to expect from his list is driving me insane, so I don’t hesitate. I shake the droplets from my fingers and open it at once. Gravity fails, and I sink deeper into the water, choking on his neat handwriting. It reads:
1. Survive cleaning up Lily’s birthday party without a doctor’s note for glitter poisoning.
2. Help you—if you’ll let me—find the kind of work that proves being Liam’s PA wasn’t your peak. That was only your launch. I want to see you fly higher than you ever thought possible. Save me a seat in the cockpit—I’ll be your loudest supporter when you soar.
3. Teach you to drive on the ‘wrong’ side of the road so we can trade off between chauffeuring and cuddling in the backseat with Lil.
4. Share my pancake recipe with you, so it’s yours too. Sunday mornings should smell of flour, syrup, and the family we’re building.
5. Plan a trip where you don’t have to plan a thing.
I stop reading as laughter bubbles out of my chest at that one—it would be a first for sure. Oh God, there’s more.
(Yes, I’ll let you mock my plain, black-and-white bullet-point itinerary.)
My eyes prickle, salty and ridiculous.
6. Take you to the hospital roof at night—the place I go to breathe. In case you ever need one too.
7. Buy a Christmas tree together. It’s Lily’s favorite holiday. Fair warning: she always picks the ugliest one, convinced it’ll be left behind. And we couldn’t possibly have that.
8. Learn more awful songs to belt out with you two until the day the neighbors call the police.
9. Make you tea when you’re sick, without being asked. Make you tea when you’re not sick. Just because I can.
10. First-day-of-school photos; last-day-of-school all-you-can-eat ice cream.
11. Reverse my vasectomy—if you ever want kids of your own. No pressure. Just a door I’d open for us.
PS: Tonight isn’t a one-off. I want to give you the kind of life that feels like an apology for everything that came before. Every day, I want you to know you’re chosen. I choose you. I want you. And I’ll cherish you, Mia. Every day.
When I reach the bottom, my hands are shaking so bad the paper crumples where my fingers clutch too tight.
My laugh gets tangled up with something wetter, because what even is this?
Who vows things with glitter, pancakes, and bullet points?
It’s ridiculous. And perfect. And so him.
My throat’s tight, my chest’s doing gymnastics, and all I manage, looking back at him, is, “It’s…
really not very filthy,” along with a single hiccup.
He doesn’t rush to answer. Doesn’t joke, doesn’t tease, doesn’t even blink. He carries on with the massage, watching me, being the steady, patient Preston he knows I need. He watches me closely, listens too. He’s gotten to know me so well.
The silence isn’t uncomfortable; it’s warm, mixing seamlessly with the steam and bubbles until it settles over us, soft as a blanket.
“You don’t have to say anything,” he says at last. “I just want to spoil you tonight. Show you what our nights will be like.” Will, not would. God, I love his confidence. There’s plenty for both of us. “I want you to feel at home in this house. It belongs to you as much as it does to me.”
He’s making it impossible to fight this, isn’t he?
“I feel…” I choke and try again. “I feel safe, Pres. And happy. Really happy.” I treasure the paper in my hands, setting it carefully on top of a towel. I tap a dry finger on top of the paper. “And this feels really tempting.”
Pres bends forward and kisses my shoulder once. “Good.” He doesn't push for more. “We don’t have to decide on anything tonight. I just wanted you to know where my dreams lie. Even when I’m awake. And they’re yours for the taking.”
We let the room fill with quiet, orange and jasmine.
How can something this good be more than a dream?
* * *
The next morning, before he leaves with Lily for Saturday drama school, he steals a good morning kiss when she’s busy skipping down the front steps to the car. The following day, when I crawl back into my room in the early hours, there’s a Post-it note.
Let me stand beside you and tell the world we’re together. I want to fall asleep with you in my arms, and start every morning with you still there, in our bed.
A few days later, my phone died in the middle of shopping, and I struggled to get home. In a matter of hours, I found a brand-new portable charger inside my purse.
He never lets me head out the door without a thermos of Yorkshire tea—my favorite British brand that he keeps endlessly stocked.
There’s no denying Preston is a man of his word. I’m thoroughly spoiled, feeling loved, and maybe getting a little high on it.
The question is—where does that leave me? My future? The one I thought I’d return to after my three months as a nanny were up.
I ignore the fact Preston already sketched out the answer. I just have to admit I want it too.
Maybe that starts with me believing I actually deserve it.