Chapter 41: The Fake Zone: Chapter 41

Growing up, my mom always insisted on making every holiday special. Valentine’s Day was no exception. She would splurge on doughnuts and decorate the house with paper hearts. A few years, she insisted on us making a nice dinner together and dressing up. She’s always been big on manners, and I think going through the dating circuit and meeting some of the jerks who concealed that they were assholes, and the deadbeats who never even tried to disguise being assholes, had her working to ensure I didn’t turn out like them.

This is my first Valentine’s Day with a date, and it’s not just anyone. It’s Mila, the woman I’ve cared about for so damn long. She’s become an integral part of my life even without her realization.

Yesterday, Jon insisted on flying home to Oleander Springs today, but Mila convinced him to wait with promised concessions she won’t go anywhere alone, would keep her phone and mace on her at all times, and would scan her car daily to ensure no new Find-it Tags are added.

I slide out of bed, turn off the alarm, and silently close the bedroom door so Mila can sleep in. She tossed and turned last night, and more than once, I woke up and found her reading a book. When I offered to talk about things or assure her she was safe, she told me reading helped settle the myriad of feelings she didn’t know how to process or wasn’t ready to face.

My phone vibrates with a text as I grab a glass of water.

My jaw clenches, anger surging through my body at the disparity in charges.

It’s like he picked the thought straight from my damn brain.

I spend the next hour prepping the living room. With Nolan living with his sister, Hannah, and Hadley, thanks to the exception in the rules, allowing him to live with a family member, his dorm has become a multi-functional space for the rest of us. I stored what I need for today in there for the past couple of weeks. I’m not sure what Mila’s reaction will be, especially after yesterday, but I know if anyone deserves love and care, it’s her.

I’d planned for us to go tent camping this weekend so Mila could cross it off her list of things she’s never experienced. The weather is unusually warm, and it would have been the perfect weekend, but instead, I set the four-person tent up in the living room and put the air mattress inside to make it comfortable.

I know from stories she and Hudson have shared that Mila loves card and board games. I stack a pile of borrowed games on the coffee table along with an assortment of snacks. Next, I get to work on breakfast, putting blueberries, sugar, and a little water in a pot to boil into syrup while making pancake batter.

My phone vibrates with another text and then a second. The first is from Jon.

I don’t know if he’s referring to Mila and me or Julian Holloway. Either answer seems dangerous. Few people in my life intimidate me. Perhaps it’s something I should thank my mom for because she never made me feel like I was better or less than anyone else, but Jon Atwool makes me shake in my proverbial boots. Mila adores her parents and respects them with the same reverence I do my mom. I know his opinion of me matters more than anyone’s.

My relief comes out as a long sigh as I text him back.

The dots appear as soon as I send my text.

My phone rings in the next second.

“Hi, Jon.”

“How’s Mila doing?” He sounds exhausted.

“He dredged up a lot of tough memories. It’s been a rough couple of weeks for her.”

Jon sighs. “What kind of a monster hunts down a person after destroying their childhood?” He pulls in a breath. “I never expected this.

. She must be going through hell.”

“She was, but last night, she said she realized Mal’s death wasn’t her fault. I know it doesn’t make things easier, but after taking so much from her, I’m glad Mila finally took this back, because…” I pause and hear the sharp intake of breath on the other line followed by a quiet sob.

“Nearly fourteen years.” His breath shudders.

“Hudson and I are going to her apartment tomorrow to ensure there are no additional Find-it Tags.” The batteries on those damn devices last an entire year.

“Thank you,” he says. “And thank you for being there for her.” He sniffs. “If she needs anything, Briggs is always on call. He’ll do virtual visits or phone calls. And if you need anything, money, food …

, let me know. I can wire money now.”

“I don’t.”

He releases another long breath. “She must really trust you.” His assurance feels like an award that I want to hang as a focal point on my wall to remind myself that the greatest achievements in life never have a damn thing to do with money. Money isn’t why I met Mila, and it didn’t make her trust me. She and I built what we had with time, effort, and care. Money also didn’t make my childhood great. My mom did. My friends and grandpa did. Learning to play football and fighting did. But I’ve also seen how poverty eats people alive, strips their self-esteem and confidence, and buries them in debt when they get sick or injured. It’s so hard to find a middle ground when one isn’t visible—may not even exist.

“She’ll be safe. I swear.”

“I have a meeting with my lawyer at noon. In the meantime, if anything happens, weird calls, strange messages, whatever—call the police and then me.”

“I will.”

“And, Grey, we’re in your debt.” He hangs up.

I pull the syrup off the stove, add the zest and juice of a lemon. I pour a ladle into a small bowl to sample it as Mila steps out of the bedroom.

“What is all this?” Her eyes dance across the room, wide and bright as a smile forms on her lips.

“Happy Valentine’s Day.”

“You set up a tent.”

“You said you’ve never been tent camping.”

She laughs, and it’s the best sound I’ve heard in the past twelve hours. “This is the best surprise ever.” With eyes infectiously bright, she walks toward me. I wrap my arms around her waist as hers encircle the back of my neck, and kiss her.

She leans back with a faint smile, keeping her arms locked around my neck as she takes a deep breath through her nose and turns to look at the stove. “I was planning to make you waffles.” A shadow of disappointment crosses her features. The waffle iron had been broken, run over by Julian fucking Holloway. “But this smells even better.”

“Do you remember the first summer we went to the beach together?” We stayed at Corey’s family’s beach house, a literal beachfront mansion with the other guys.

Mila nods.

“We had breakfast at that small restaurant the first day because we hadn’t gone grocery shopping yet, and you ordered pancakes with blueberry syrup.”

Her eyes shine with recognition. “I’d forgotten about that place. Why didn’t we ever go back? I practically licked my plate.”

I grin. “I’m making you that same breakfast, and this time, when you get whipped cream on your lip,” I skate my thumb over her upper lip, “I plan to lick it off.”

Her pupils dilate with lust. “Tell me we’re taking the day off.”

I nod. “We are.”

She presses closer. “Good. I think we can find better ways to get in our cardio.”

“So many better ways,” I agree, stripping off the tee Mila wore to bed. Her breasts are bare, and her nipples are already peaked.

I slip off her sweatpants and underwear next.

She chuckles. “You always just fling them across the room.”

I nod and, without warning, lift her onto the small kitchen island.

Mila squeals as the cold connects with her skin, a challenge for me to make her forget, just like I hope to make her forget all the pain Julian has caused. I spread her knees with my waist and grab the small bowl of blueberry syrup I’d set aside to sample. I dip my finger into it to ensure it won’t burn her, and when I discover it’s safe, I smear the purple syrup across her breast and nipple.

Mila arches her back, a soft moan gathering in her throat. I lean down and lick the stiff peak, and she hisses as she wraps her fingers around the counter. I lick her again and then seal my mouth around her nipple, lavishing my tongue across the taut peak until her thighs spread wider with a silent invitation. I dip my fingers into the syrup again, painting more of it across her stomach and thighs.

I lick it from her stomach first, overjoyed by the giggle she releases. Then, I lower my mouth to her thigh, licking and caressing her skin there while bringing my clean hand to her middle and stroking along her core.

She moans, bringing one hand to my hair and raking her nails across my scalp.

I slip my fingers into her, knuckle deep, and she writhes, leaning back on the counter, forgetting the cold or simply not caring.

Mission accomplished.

I spread her thighs wider and drag my tongue across her again and again until she’s breathless. Then I slide my fingers inside her and devour her clit, greedy for her orgasm.

Mila’s thighs tremble as she lifts her knees, breathing my name again and again. I slide a second finger inside, curling them to that spot that makes her breaths labored, and worship her with my mouth and fingers until she falls apart.