Chapter 21 #2
The water warms my skin, streams through my hair, and slides down my face, washing away the long afternoon. I close my eyes for a second, combing my fingers through my wet hair.
A small smile tugs at my lips as I think about what is actually happening today, it’s a little nerve-racking especially since my dad will be introducing himself but I’m learning how to just let things happen.
To not overthink or bring myself down over little baby steps anymore.
I’m learning how to live again and accept new adventures.
And honestly?
I kind of like it.
* * *
Twenty minutes have passed, and my nerves buzz like an electric fence. They’ll be here any second now.
I went with a soft, casual look for tonight—something easy but still…
presentable. My hair’s tied back into a ponytail, loose strands framing my face.
I’m wearing a red and white cross-stitched baby doll top that cinches at the waist and hints at just enough skin to feel a little flirty.
It’s paired with my dark wash denim jeans and a pair of tan sandals I probably wear too much but are so comfortable.
I kept the makeup simple with a bit of rose blush to warm my cheeks, a swipe of concealer under my eyes, mascara to make them pop, and a red lip stain that’s softened into a rose hue. Just enough effort to look like I’m not trying too hard.
“Much better,” Mindy says as soon as I come down.
I smile and give her a quick hug. “Thanks. I’m sure Greg’s going to have trouble keeping his eyes off you in that top.”
She grins, not even pretending to act modest. She knows exactly what she’s doing—those flared jeans hugging her hips, the slightly low-cut yellow button-up that pops against her golden tan.
Her hair is braided back neatly, tied with a ribbon, and her makeup is just like mine—except her lips look like she’s been sipping honey all day.
“You look great too, Min. As always,” I add, just to send her ego soaring a little higher.
Outside, Dad’s manning the grill in his usual barbecue apron that says What’s cooking, good looking? It’s cheesy as hell, but it was a Secret Santa gift from Trevor years ago, and he still wears it like a badge of honor. Never fails to make me laugh when he wears it.
“Hey.” Mindy points at his apron. “I think there’s been a typo. Pretty sure it’s meant to say What’s cooking, Fairy Mary?”
Riley and I burst into laughter.
Dad narrows his eyes at her, tongs raised like a weapon. “You keep that mouth of yours running, you’ll be getting no food tonight.”
“Oh, come on,” she teases. “You know I love you, old man.”
“Yeah, yeah,” he mutters, trying and failing to hide a grin as he flips a burger.
And then the doorbell rings.
I freeze for a beat. My stomach does this weird flip like it’s trying to cartwheel.
Heading toward the door, I wipe my hands on my jeans like it’ll help reset my pulse.
The scent of grilling meat drifts through the house, blending with jasmine from the porch plants and the underlying electricity of anticipation knotting in my chest. I take a deep breath and open the door.
And there he is, holding his hat in one hand, a six-pack in the other, and that same goddamn crooked grin that has no business looking that good. His eyes—those warm, dark eyes that somehow always feel like fire and comfort all at once land right on me. And stay there.
“Evenin’, Bambi,” he says, low and smooth, like velvet dragged across bare skin.
Behind him, Greg lifts a hand in greeting, his expression unreadable but easy enough. He’s got a tray of food, what looks to be chicken wings, and he throws me a casual, “Smells good already.”
But I can barely look at him. Because Miles is looking at me like I’ve knocked the air straight out of his lungs.
His eyes drag over me with unhurried intensity, lingering on the way my top hugs the curves of my chest, the soft dip of my waist, the slope of my neck exposed with my hair pulled up. His gaze is slow, reverent—like he’s committing every inch of me to memory and doesn’t care if it’s obvious.
And yet, he doesn’t say a word about how I look. Doesn’t need to. The look in his eyes speaks louder than anything he could say.
As if he’s barely keeping himself in check.
Greg shifts beside him with a grunt, stepping forward to hand off the tray. “We gonna stand here all evening or what?”
“Right,” I say quickly, shaking myself out of the spell. I take the tray, trying not to let my hand brush Miles’s, even though my skin is practically itching for it. “Come in.”
Miles doesn’t move immediately. He just watches me for another second longer, his gaze a little softer this time. “You look…” He clears his throat. “You look nice, Viv.”
I bite the inside of my cheek, warmth crawling up my neck. “Thanks.”
And just before he steps inside, his fingers brush lightly against the small of my back.
Barely there.
But it’s enough.
Enough to make my heart stutter.
The memory of his touch when we stayed at the lake.
I’m walking a tightrope.
I’m wrangled in this feeling.
And he’s the damn fire down below.
Trying to keep it together as we walk through the house and out the back of the kitchen, we step into the backyard like it’s no big deal. Like I haven’t been internally spiraling over this whole meet-the-dad situation.
The radio hums with an old country tune, something upbeat and summery. Mindy’s already popped the wine and is shimmying her shoulders to the beat while Riley dances like no one’s watching—arms flailing, dress twirling, her laugh echoing through the backyard like sunshine.
Meanwhile, my dad is flipping burgers and sipping on his beer, this is pretty much when we see him in his element when he is chefing it up, like we say.
I glance at Miles beside me. He’s taking it all in, watching Riley, smiling at Mindy’s antics, and waving at my dad.
And suddenly, nerves kick in like a sucker punch to the stomach.
Greg greets my dad before walking over to Mindy casual and confident, but they don’t kiss or hug, keeping it totally PG. Then he leans down and fist bumps Riley, who squeals with delight and keeps dancing.
I clear my throat, stepping forward. “So, this is my dad,” I say, forcing my voice to sound breezy and not like I’m seconds away from sweating through my top. “Eric Donovan.”
Miles extends a hand, the movement firm but respectful. “Miles Sanchez, sir.”
His voice is steady, but I don’t miss the way his jaw flexes just slightly.
He’s nervous. Not much, but enough. And somehow, that makes it worse, or better?
I don’t even know anymore. Because him looking a little nervous and still pulling off this quiet confidence?
It’s sexy as hell. Like he’s trying, because I matter.
Dad looks him over for a beat too long. Then nods and shakes his hand. “So, you’re the Miles Sanchez,” he says, eyes twinkling just enough to keep things civil. “Pleasure to meet you.”
Miles smiles. “Nice to meet you too.” His nose lifts slightly as he takes in the scent of the barbecue. “Smells incredible.”
“Want to help then?” Dad asks, like it’s some kind of test.
“Sure. Just tell me what you need,” Miles replies without missing a beat.
“Pass me the ribs, please,” Dad says, pointing toward the side table. Miles heads straight for them, calm, collected, and already fitting in too damn well.
Okay. Good. This is good. So far, no disasters. No awkward tension. No intense interrogations.
Greg joins us a moment later, giving my dad a quick nod. “Are those the sweet sticky ribs I love, Mr. Donovan?”
Dad lets out a laugh. “Call me Eric,” he says, waving him off like they’re old friends. “Wouldn’t be me if I didn’t cook them.” He winks.
I step back, letting the guys settle into a natural rhythm. Mindy saunters over, wineglass in hand, and bumps my hip lightly.
“Okay, I know this isn’t a meet the boyfriend kind of thing,” she murmurs under her breath. “But…girl, he is passing this test.”
“I’m not testing him,” I whisper back.
She lifts a brow. “Maybe not intentionally. But we all are. And he’s crushing it.”
I glance toward Miles again. Laughing at something my dad said, probably using one of his dad jokes on him.
And when he catches my eye—just a flicker across the yard—his lips tug into the softest smile.
I am so screwed.
“It’s not a big deal,” I begin, pouring lemonade into the plastic cups, keeping my voice even. “It’s just a friendly gathering.”
Mindy shoots me a look over her wineglass, unimpressed. “So, you weren’t nervous about this?”
“No. Okay?” I lie, eyes narrowing.
She tilts her head and smirks like she sees straight through me, which she does. “Right. And I suppose that extra blush appearing on your cheeks is from the grill smoke?”
I don’t respond. Mostly because I’m too busy sneaking a glance toward the table, where Miles is currently helping Riley add ketchup to her burger, letting her do it herself even when she almost squeezes the entire bottle out.
We all sit down around the outdoor table under the string lights my dad put up last summer—faint golden bulbs twinkling above us like lazy fireflies. The scent of grilled meat and buttery corn floats in the air, mixing with the low hum of music still playing from the porch radio.
Riley takes a loud bite of her burger, sauce already on her cheek. “This is the best burger I’ve ever had in my whole life,” she declares dramatically. “Like, better than the ones at Miss Tammy’s diner.”
Mindy snorts into her drink. “That’s a bold statement, Riri.”
She shrugs, wiping her mouth with the back of her hand. “Grandpa’s got skills.”
My dad chuckles, clearly eating up the praise. “Damn right I do.”
Conversation flows easy, but I feel the moment my dad shifts into question mode. He leans back in his chair, eyes settling on Miles with that signature fatherly squint.
“So, Miles…” my dad starts, tone casual—but that gleam in his eye says this is the beginning of the interrogation. “You from around here originally?”