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SIXTEEN

MILLIE

I can’t stop the smile that tugs at my lips when I see Gavin. It’s only been a week. A week of phone calls, of texts, of staying up too late so I can talk to him before bed. A week since he held me while I slept and told me we were everything. Told me he wanted this. Me.

If I could just get my shit together and talk to my dad.

A much easier decision than I thought it would be. I miss my dad. Stupid pride, too much distance, and an embarrassing amount of time clouded my ability to see what was right in front of me. My father with a proud smile on his face every time he looks at me. He’s not upset about how I handled his wedding, and he’s not angry at me for leaving. No, he’s nothing but thrilled that I’m here.

I called him the second I said goodbye to Gavin at the airport, and he jumped into a full conversation without hesitation. And when I asked if I could stay at the house for Daniel’s graduation weekend, his response couldn’t have been more perfect. “This is your home, Millie. Wherever I am is your home. You’re always welcome.”

Sure, it was awkward seeing Lake when I walked into the house—her home now—but I replayed Dad’s words, reminding myself that her presence doesn’t diminish the love my dad has for me.

The reunion with my mother wasn’t quite so smooth. She showed up here pretending to want to help. All day, she’s plastered on smiles, pretending to be thrilled for my father and Lake, but when she gets me alone, her underhanded comments are back.

My so-called friends are here too, and they’ve paid me zero attention. They made no secret of their priority today: meeting my brother’s NHL friends. Whatever. I couldn’t care less about my brother’s friends. It’s my dad’s best friend that I’m salivating over right now.

“You remember my daughter, Millie,” my father says as the two of them approach me.

My smile only grows as the grown man whose dirty words ripped an orgasm from me during our video call just a few nights ago squirms.

In a pair of navy shorts and a light blue polo shirt, the man is beautiful. It doesn’t hurt that his toned arms are on full display and that, with every inhale, his shirt strains against his chest. Or that he’s so hung that even when he’s not hard, I can still see the shape of him beneath his shorts. I probably shouldn’t be staring at my father’s best friend’s dick while I stand next to my father, but seriously, he’s sex on a stick. I have to lick my lips to hold back the drool.

“Uh yeah. Sure, of course. Hi, Millie. Right, you look. You’re—” he stutters, his eyes wild with panic.

My father frowns and gapes at him.

“Relax,” I mouth while Dad is distracted by Gavin’s insanity.

Gavin clears his throat and ducks his head. When he looks up again, he’s schooled his expression. “You look lovely.”

“Thank you, Mr. Langfield,” I say in a voice sweet enough to make his teeth ache.

My father laughs and rocks back on his heels. “Oh god, has anyone ever called you that?”

Gavin huffs. “I run a fucking hockey team. Of course people have called me that.”

His brother appears—the married one—with a kid clinging to one leg as he walks. “Called you what?”

Gavin scowls, but the expression melts almost immediately, then he’s crouching and holding out a fist to the little boy. “Bump it.”

The kid immediately releases Beckett and pounds his knuckles against Gavin’s.

The bright smile on Gavin’s face and the look of adoration on the little boy’s makes my heart melt.

“Mr. Langfield,” my father says.

Beckett laughs. “Yeah, no one calls you that.”

“’Scuse me?” Gavin croaks from his spot beside the kid.

“You’s Uncle Gav. Not Mr. Langfield. Sometimes Mommy calls Bossman that, and then he turns red. I think he’s allergic to it.”

Beckett presses a fist to his mouth and coughs.

I have to press my lips together to hold back a laugh. Obviously, the kid has overheard his parents’ sexy talk.

Gavin’s grin is so wide it’s hard to look at. “I’m going to take this guy to play with the other kids.”

“Don’t you want that drink?” Ford asks.

“I can bring him one, Daddy,” I offer. “What would you like, Mr. Langfield?”

My father points at me, wearing a faux stern expression. “Don’t you get smart over there.”

I shrug. “Who, me? Never.”

Gavin’s cheeks have gone pink when he stammers, “A—a water is fine.”

“You sure? I make a great peach margarita. I could whip one up for you.”

Gavin’s eyes bulge, and he just about swallows his tongue. “Water’s good. I’ll uh—I’ll just be over there.” Almost woodenly, he turns and heads straight for Beckett’s wife and other kids.

My father drapes an arm over my shoulders. “Let’s put this food down, and then we can make a batch. I haven’t had a peach margarita in years. Sounds good.”

Biting back a smile, I sneak a peek at Gavin, who is now on the grass, wrestling with the little boy. The joy radiating from him only magnifies when a smaller girl wanders close and squeezes his face between her palms. It’s so strange to see him in this environment. To picture him as a family man.

But god is it good to see him.

I look back at my father. “Yeah, peach margaritas are my favorite.”