“Nice car,” I offer, fiddling with the hem of my dark red blouse. “Is it new?”
He grunts.
“What happened to your motorcycle?”
“Motorcycles don’t hold car seats,” he mutters, still refusing to look at me.
“Oh.”
He traded in his motorcycle? For me?
Not for you, you idiot. For Peanut.
I bite the inside of my cheek, trying to ignore my guilt and the way his tattoos magnify the muscles along his forearms as he grips the steering wheel. A few new ones are etched into his skin, and I’d give anything to examine them closer, but I’m not stupid. Which is exactly what I would be if I asked him about them.
He might be a tattoo artist, but each of his tattoos is personal to him. With a story. A feeling. He might be shitty with words, but his tattoos? They speak louder than any sentence he could ever string together.
When a gorgeous dandelion etched into his forearm catches my eye, my fingers itch to trace it, but I clench them into a fist.
“Staring’s rude,” he mumbles, his gaze still glued to the road.
“Sorry. I, uh…” I point to the dandelion tattoo, unable to help myself. “It’s new.”
He looks down at his forearm, the ink still fresh and dark, each line crisp and strong, yet almost delicate too. He still refuses to say a word.
“It’s gorgeous,” I mention.
More silence.
“Did you do it?”
The bastard stays quiet, only fanning my curiosity.
“I mean, I know you like to create the stencils for your own tattoos, right?”
His jaw ticks.
“Or did you let one of the apprentices practice on you again? If you did, you should give them props from me. It might be my favorite––”
“She needs a name,” he barks, practically strangling the leather steering wheel with his firm grasp.
I flinch back and look at the car seat tucked in the back row. My chest flares with indecision as I suck my lips between my teeth. Finally, I whisper, “I know.”
“So, why haven’t you named her?”
“I don’t know.”
“It’s not difficult––”
“Don’t talk to me about difficult,” I mutter, pressing my forehead to the passenger window.
I can almost hear him gritting his teeth before a low sigh escapes him. “Fine. What’ve you been calling her?”
Fiddling with the hem of my shirt, I glance his way. If it were anyone else, they wouldn’t bat an eye at a simple nickname like Peanut. But Milo? He knows me better.
“I, uh, I call her Peanut.”
His gaze darts over to me, and his jaw tightens, but he doesn’t comment. He simply pushes the gas pedal a little harder and grips the steering wheel until his knuckles are white.
“A peanut butter sandwich?” I ask. “Seriously?”
“What the hell’s wrong with a peanut butter sandwich?” Milo returns, slathering a few tablespoons onto a slice of white bread.
I smile and sway closer to him, wrapping my arms around his bare torso. Gibson had to work tonight. He mentioned it the last time we were all together, and it’s precisely the reason I asked Milo if he wanted to hook up this evening. I like Gibson. He’s respectful. Sweet. And he understands the lines we’ve drawn to keep any of us from getting attached or hurt. But he’s not the one for me. And it’s getting harder and harder to let him touch me when the only person I want is the emotionally unavailable tattoo artist in front of me.
“Nothing’s wrong with it,” I add. “I’m just curious why it’s always your go-to after sex.”
“Maybe I need the protein.”
I snort and run my hands along his six-pack, toying with the hem of his gray joggers hanging low on his hips. “Trust me. You get plenty of protein.”
“Mm-hmm,” he grunts, slapping the second piece of bread on top of the first, and turns around in my arms to offer me a bite.
With a smile, I take one.
“Mmm,” I hum, licking my lips. “Yummy.”
“It was my favorite food as a kid.” He takes a bite of his own, his rugged jaw clenching as he chews.
“Oh, really?”
“My parents didn’t give a shit about Reese and me, but whenever they’d have any money in their wallets, I’d steal a few bucks for a loaf of white bread and a jar of peanut butter to hold us over.”
“And what happened when their wallets were empty?” I ask.
He shrugs one shoulder and takes another bite.
“Tell me,” I prod.
“I’d go dumpster diving.”
The answer makes me pause, my heart swelling for the little boy who wound up with way too much responsibility on his shoulders all because his parents were shitty. Don’t get me wrong. Mine were too, but it was different. I never had to worry about whether or not food would be on the table. If anything, they cared too much, were too present. Too hands-on. Too controlling. I felt like I was being smothered. Like I was never good enough for either of them, and they loved pointing out how I fell short anytime we were in the same room together.
I shove aside the memory and rise onto my tiptoes, licking a small smudge of peanut butter from the corner of his mouth. His gaze heats.
“So, it’s your happy food?” I ask.
“It helps me remember there can be a bright side even during shitty circumstances.”
“Which is why you crave it after sex?” I laugh, quirking my brow.
The dimples in his cheeks deepen. “Maybe I like pairing it with other things that make me happy.”
My chest tightens as I bask in his warm gaze.
“Then maybe we should make it a trifecta. What do you say?”
Cocking his head to one side, he grabs my ass with his sandwich-free hand and digs his fingers into my flesh, pulling me against him. “What would you suggest we do?”
With a laugh, I stick my finger into the jar of peanut butter still sitting on the counter, knowing if he weren’t so curious about what I’m about to do, he’d probably smack my ass for it. Scooping up a small dollop, I slide onto my knees and tug at his sweats, wiping my peanut butter-coated finger along the tip of his swelling erection.
“To looking at the bright side,” I murmur, holding his gaze as I wrap my lips around him.
He cups my cheek and rubs his thumb along the side of my mouth as I swallow him whole.
“To things that make me happy.”
5
Maddie
“Your bedroom’s up here,” he mutters, quieter than ever as we walk up the stairs before turning right down the short hallway. He hasn’t said a word to me since I admitted to calling Peanut, well, Peanut. But I get it. And maybe it wasn’t fair for me to nickname my baby something which would constantly remind me of Milo. But I needed it. The connection. The reminder that even under shitty circumstances––like winding up pregnant with no idea who the father is––there’s still a rainbow at the end of it all. A peanut butter sandwich promising everything is going to be okay.
And I desperately hope it will be.
It’s weird being at Milo’s place again. Surreal. And almost a little spooky. Like a ghost might pop out any second when I know it’s only my past haunting me. Rubbing my empty hands along my arms, I take in the familiar greige walls and soft carpet while ignoring Milo holding Peanut’s car seat and the fact he hasn’t let her out of his sight since he picked us up at the hospital. How he hasn’t left my sight, either.