Caught Up (Windy City Series Book 3)
Caught Up: Chapter 35

Miller is looking out the passenger window of my truck, watching the city skyscrapers as we leave downtown to head home.

I don’t ask what’s wrong because we both know. She leaves in a handful of hours; the countdown on our time together hits zero in the morning.

Eyes flickering from the road ahead of me back to her, I reach over the center console, splaying my palm over her thigh. Miller exhales against the glass before she covers my hand with her own, holding on tight.

She smiles at me over her shoulder, but it doesn’t reach her eyes.

Miller is the one to grab Max out of his car seat when we get home, holding him to her chest as we walk inside. She won’t put him on his feet or let him go, and I understand that sentiment all too well. I do the same when I’m heading to the field for the day, but unlike me, when Miller leaves the house tomorrow, she won’t be coming back.

When she starts for his room, I stop her, snaking my hand over her waist. “Hold up.” I nod towards the kitchen. “I have something for you before we put him to bed.”

The skin between Miller’s brows creases, but with my son on her hip, and her looking like my fucking dream, she follows me into the kitchen.

Max claps enthusiastically, really boosting my ego as I put the cake I made on the counter right in front of a world-renowned pastry chef.

“Did you make me a cake?” she asks.

I look up to replace her staring at it, bottom lip tucked between her teeth.

“It’s your birthday, Mills. Everyone deserves a birthday cake.”

She smiles the saddest smile I’ve ever seen. “I haven’t had someone else make me a cake since I was a little girl and my dad tried. It wasn’t very good, though.”

“Well, keep your expectations low. I have a feeling Monty and I have similar levels of skill in the kitchen.”

She laughs, but I can hear the emotion sitting in her throat. Today is hard for her and yes, in a way I wanted her leaving to be hard. I wanted her to feel so connected to a place or a person that it’d hurt in the best way when she had to leave them, but I fucking love the girl and the last thing I want is for her to be upset, especially on her birthday.

“The cake is from a box so we should be safe there, but I did have to make my own frosting. That’s where the problem could be.” Shyly, I scratch the back of my neck.

She takes a small swipe off the edge, offering a bit to Max on her finger, and as soon as it’s on his tongue, his face scrunches as if this was the worst form of torture and not a sweet dessert.

“Oh, no,” I grumble. “That’s not a good sign.”

Miller takes another swipe on the same finger, putting it in her mouth. She nods as if she were contemplating. “This tastes like shit.”

I can’t help but laugh.

Her green eyes soften. “Thank you, Kai. This is . . .” She simply nods, unable to add more words.

“The best cake you’ve ever had?”

A smile tilts. “Something like that.”

Leaning over the kitchen island that separates us, I kiss her. “One more thing.”

“One more thing?” She bounces Max on her hip, nuzzling into him. “One more thing, Bug?”

He giggles as I slide a small gift bag across the counter. Her attention bounces from it to me. “You didn’t have to get me anything.”

“It’s small. Almost nothing, really.”

Max reaches down, pulling out the dark yellow tissue from the top of the bag.

“Good helping,” Miller encourages, dipping her hand in.

I watch her as she takes in the framed photo. Her face morphs, her tongue poking the inside of her cheek and her eyes taking on an instant sheen. She keeps her attention on it and when she blinks, the first tear falls.

“Mills—”

She shakes me off, continuing to look at the picture. It’s a photo Isaiah snapped a couple of weeks back. Us on the couch in the living room with Max taking a nap on her and her using my thigh as a pillow. Her chocolate brown hair spills over my legs, and I’ve got my hand on her head, looking down at her like she’s the best thing I’ve ever seen.

“Mmm, sad,” Max says, pointing at a tear falling down her cheek.

She wipes it away. “No, baby. I’m not sad. I’m happy. I’m just crying because I love you so much.”

Fuck. Now I’m going to start crying.

How the hell is this just over tomorrow?

I clear my throat. “I got the same picture framed for Max’s room.”

And for mine.

“And there’s a card in the bag.”

Miller shoots me a deadpanned glare, as if telling me that making her cry once today was enough. She sets Max to sit on the counter as she digs back into the bag and pulls out the birthday card.

It’s simple, nothing flashy or extraordinary about it, but on the inside Max went to town with green and orange crayons. It’s covered in his scribbles and at the very bottom, I signed it for him.

Happy Birthday, Miller.

I love you.

Love, Max

She exhales a breath of a laugh. “Did you make this for me?” she asks my son. “Thank you, Bug. This is beautiful. I’m going to keep it forever and look at it whenever I’m missing you, which is going to be all the time.”

I watch her as she watches my son. She runs her hand over his hair, her attention flicking back to her card.

“Thank you.” Those words are directed at me.

“Happy birthday, Mills. I hope it’s your best one yet.”

Her greens flick to me. “It is. Because of you two.”

We don’t usually do bedtime together. If I’m home in time, I put him down, and if I’m still at the field, Miller gets him to sleep. But tonight being her last night here, we both go into his room.

I change his diaper, get him in a pair of pajamas, and do a quick brush of his little teeth, but I hand him over to Miller so she could be the one to rock him to sleep. She’s only going to have an hour or so with him tomorrow before she hits the road, so I’ll give her as much time as she wants tonight.

They take a seat together in the rocker as I stand by the door, watching, trying to burn the image into my memory.

Max is so close to passing out for the night, so she doesn’t even pull a book to read. She simply holds him to her chest, rocking back on the chair. Her face is etched in agony, knowing this is the last time she’s going to do this with him. Her brows are pinched, her chin a bit wobbly.

“Miller,” I whisper, but she shakes me off like she wants to feel the sadness, sit in it and let it consume her.

Max slowly lifts his head from her chest to look at her and she replaces the strength to give him a smile. His little finger goes right to her septum ring, touching it cautiously.

“I love you, Max.” Her voice is barely audible.

“Mmm,” he hums her name, touching her face as gently as he can.

“You almost got it. One day I’ll get to hear you say my name. You’ll have to make sure your daddy records it for me when you do.”

He looks right at her, his icy blues boring into her, and there’s absolutely no misunderstanding when he says, “Mmm . . . Mama.”

Miller’s face falls. “What did you say?”

“Mama.” Max grins, so proud of himself for saying a name I now realize he’s been trying to say for weeks. “Mama! Mama!”

Miller’s head whips in my direction. She’s on the brink of an emotional meltdown while holding my son, who is looking at her as if every missing puzzle piece in his life has been put back together.

He settles himself back on her chest, quietly repeating the word over and over again while Miller rocks him and cries her fucking eyes out.

And I watch her heart break from the doorway while mine breaks for both me and my son.