Page 8 of Milk For The Billionaire’s Little (The Lactin Brotherhood #20)

JAMES

When I was told I had a delivery, I half suspected it was the mask. Kennan seemed like the type to be a little extra and bring it himself instead of waiting until the day of the event. Or maybe that was just wishful thinking. Maybe I just wanted it to be him .

But when I went downstairs to the door, it wasn’t.

It was a man in a suit. Very business-like. Fancy, even. He was holding a garment bag in one hand and a paper shopping bag in the other, a weird orange-colored one.

“I take it you’re James?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I was asked to bring these to you.”

“Thank you,” I said automatically, my brain still catching up to what was happening.

Then I hesitated. “Can I ask a question?”

He raised an eyebrow but didn’t stop me.

“Are you sure it’s me? Should I, like… show you ID or something?” Nothing in a garment bag was cheap. Ever.

“No, I’m sure it’s you,” he said with a smile. “They’re from Mr. … they’re from Kennan.”

Just hearing his name sent a little thrill through me. We hadn’t used names for long, so it still felt new, like a gift every time he said mine or I said his.

Kennan and I had been chatting back and forth about the event, although not really about the event. More like… using the event as an excuse to talk. And neither of us seemed in a rush to stop doing that.

“Should I sign anything?” I asked.

“No, you’re good. Have a nice night, sir.”

Sir. That made me laugh a little internally. The only time I’d heard someone call me sir was when they were about to tell me I needed to fill out more paperwork. Definitely not from someone this well-dressed. It was weird now that I thought about it—that a delivery guy would be so dressed up.

I shrugged it off and brought the bags back up to my room.

The first thing I did was unzip the garment bag.

Inside was a suit. Or maybe a tux? I didn’t even know the difference.

How horrible was that? I ran my fingers down the lapel.

What sat inside was definitely not a box store special.

This outfit was nice . The garment bag gave nothing away about where it originated, but the suit inside said it was someplace I wouldn’t be welcome. That was for sure.

I pulled out my phone and sent him a message: You rented me a suit??

Less than thirty seconds later, he replied with a voice text: “ No. It’s a gift. It’s for the ball. Try it on. See if it fits. I did my best guessing your size.”

I slipped it on and stood in front of the mirror. I looked like someone else. Someone important. Someone who could walk into a ballroom without worrying about being laughed at or mistaken for catering staff.

Even with my tousled hair and my white socks peeking out underneath the pants— crap . Shoes. I was going to have to go get shoes. At least those could be from the discount store. People didn’t tend to look at your feet, right?

I sent him a picture. It fits perfectly. Thank you.

He responded immediately: You look great. Were the shoes too big or too small—I can send a different size over.

Shoes? He sent shoes, too. I rushed to the orange bag, the one I’d assumed held the mask. It wasn’t a mask at all. It was shoes. Shoes that were exactly my size.

Are you like one of those tailors who can just look at someone and know their size?

We hadn’t discussed his job, but it would’ve made sense.

Nope. Not a tailor. Then another message followed a few seconds later: How about you get ready. I need to as well. I’ll pick you up at 6.

I agreed, fingers hovering over the keyboard a second longer than necessary. Why hadn’t he told me what he did for a living? He definitely didn’t have mafia vibes. There was nothing shady or scary about him. Could he be a doctor? Maybe something like that—doctors probably owned suits.

I set everything out carefully, laying the pieces on the bed to prevent wrinkles.

After calling ahead to snag a spot, I ran down the street to get my hair trimmed.

I let the stylist shape it a little, nothing too dramatic, but a thousand times better than the current just-rolled-out-of-bed vibe it currently was sporting.

If I was going to be dressed up all fancy, I might as well not look like I’d just crawled out of a pile of laundry.

I was showered, changed, and pacing the room when there was a knock at my door. Someone must have let him in downstairs. Security was hardly secure here.

I opened it—and there he was. Kennan.

No mask. Just his face. His actual face.

He was stunning. The most drop-dead gorgeous man I had ever seen. I recognized him instantly by his smile .

“Come in,” I said, stepping back to make room.

I immediately felt awkward. My shitty little apartment hadn’t grown any classier in the last hour. The peeling linoleum, the slightly leaning bookshelf, the crooked light fixture… it all screamed not good enough .

“I just need to say goodbye to Rosco and then we can go.”

“Rosco?”

“Yeah, come and meet him.”

Without even thinking, I reached out and grabbed his hand, tugging him inside. I brought him over to Rosco’s enclosure and launched into the story of how I ended up as the proud papa of a hedgehog.

“Well, it’s nice to meet you, Rosco,” Kennan said, crouching down to get a better look.

“He thinks so too,” I replied, answering for him with a little smile.

Then Kennan looked at me. Something in his face changed—softened, but serious. So very Daddy.

“You’re not weirded out by who I am?”

His question caught me off guard.

“I don’t think I know who you are,” I said slowly. “Other than what I know, you know? Why, are you a famous singer or something? You’re handsome enough to be a movie star, so maybe that?”

“No,” he said, then shook his head. “I mean—yeah. Kind of famous, but nothing close to a movie star. I’m Kennan Millerson. From Millerson Enterprises.”

My jaw dropped. I knew that name. Everyone knew that name. I couldn’t remember seeing a picture of him, but I’d been all work and no play for a shit long time. I didn’t know a lot of popular culture.

Standing in front of me was not just a man with a good job. He was Kennan Millerson . As in… the CEO of Millerson. He was the one who gave people the good jobs. The person whose name showed up in Forbes, in billionaires’ lists, and all that kind of stuff. He was the antithesis of me.

“Oh,” I breathed. “ That’s why you wore a mask.”

He nodded.

“I’m just… me, though. I work at a nursing home. I’m just me.”

And just like that, even with my little glow-up, my freshly styled hair, my tailored suit, my fancy shoes, I suddenly didn’t feel good enough.

“I know, James,” he said gently. “That’s why I’m here... for you.”

Something in the way he said it broke through the fog in my head. He knew me. Not in the celebrity gossip way. Not in the flash-and-glamour way. Me. The Little who looked to him for his milk.

I stood on my tiptoes and pressed a kiss to his cheek.

“I’m glad you are.”