Page 46 of Just a Distraction

“I think I’ve run out of K words.”

Milo catches Callum’s gaze and gives him a big grin. It’s as if someone’s pressed a button that makes me I swoon. Automatically and without shame.

I feel it for a blip of a moment, and then the shame hits.

I can’t do this. I shouldn’t be here with him like this. But am I walking away?

Not yet.

“It’s not too uncommon, Rose. You’re going to get it eventually.”

I stare at him and am temporarily waylaid by the sight of his muscularly lean arms in his black short-sleeved shirt. Why is the way he’s using his fork and knife so mesmerizing? “Middle names are tricky,” I finally say.

“What’s yours?”

“I’m not telling you if you’re not telling me yours!”

“Fair, fair.” He leans back and smirks. “I’ll just have to guess.”

“You can certainly try.”

Eventually, our conversation turns to deeper matters. I even mention Randall, the man my mom was married to during my junior year of high school. Randall, I explain, was a mechanic and a youth pastor. He was a decent and kind person and even though their marriage didn’t last, having him in our lives for that short time did wonders for my siblings and me. He was stable. He was there at the dinner table every night. He loved all of us.

It was my mom who ended things. Sometimes I wonder if she felt like he was too good for her . . . that being married to him was disrupting the set point of her life. She wasn’t comfortable being loved.

When I realize how heavy the subject matter is, I shift gears, admitting to him that I don’t have a middle name. I’m just Rose Hawkins.

Over an hour later, the sky through the floor-to-ceiling windows is pitch black and Callum is fussy.

“I lost track of time. I need to get him home and in bed.” Our plates have long been taken away and the place closed up. But since Milo’s a Tate, they let us stay in here. The bill was paid long ago, as well. Milo went up to the cash register on the ruse of needing to use the bathroom and when I tried to go up later to pay, they said it had been taken care of. The little brat.

I unclip Callum from his highchair and gather him in my arms. Now he’s full-on crying. Spurty cries, like he’s in pain somehow. “Shh, shh, baby. Let’s get you home and in the bath, okay?”

Callum knows the word “bath” and I thought he’d repeat it like he normally does. You don’t know cute until you’ve heard his little, high-pitched “Baf!” But he just starts wailing louder. I avoid looking at Milo. I don’t know if I could bear it if he looked uncomfortable at Callum crying. Up until now, Callum’s been anangel around him, but of course, he cries sometimes. I wouldn’t be surprised if Milo was at least a little flustered.

But Milo reaches out his hands, Callum moves toward him, and then, just like that, Milo’s holding him. Callum doesn’t stop crying, but at least it allows me to gather up all my things. I start to wipe down the highchair with a napkin. With the staff being gone, I can’t just leave it a mess.

“I got this,” Milo says. “I’ll clean this up. Why don’t you go pull your car up to the front and I’ll carry him out?”

He doesn’t wait for me to answer; he just holds Callum in one arm and grabs the highchair with his other arm—his tightly flexed, muscular, capable arm. Several steps towards the kitchen and Callum’s already calming down some.

I hurry outside to the far reaches of the parking garage where staff is allowed to park, get in my car, start it up, and drive up the ramp and out of the garage. I see Callum and Milo near the curb, Callum’s tear-stained face already back to grinning at Milo again.

“That man is a miracle worker,” I whisper under my breath.

I hop out after I stop the car and open the door, wiping madly at the crumbs that have gathered at the bottom of the car seat. I try not to judge myself, you know? But it’s slightly embarrassing.

Just as I’ve made it fairly presentable, I turn around to witness my little boy throwing up all over Milo.

Chapter 19

Milo

Back at Rose’s apartment, on the living room floor with Callum and their golden retriever, Rose looks up at me, her hair piled in a messy bun on the top of her head, a look of defeat in her eyes. “I can’t believe my kid did that to you.”

I chuckle. “He did it to you, too.”

She presses her eyes shut and adjusts the hem of her grey sweatshirt. “I keep reliving it in slow motion. Me turning around from the car seat, to seeing him vomit all over you, to me grabbing him from you and realizing, mid-stream, that he wasn’t done.” She looks at me again, shaking her head back and forth in disbelief. “I’m glad you didn’t get the full brunt of it, though.”

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