Page 24 of Taste Of You

Pulling out my phone, I send her a quick text.

Tell me what floor you are on, sweetheart. Let me be there for you. ~JetA

“Thank you,” I say, looking back up at the older guy, and he nods.

Once more, he eyes me from head to toe before giving me a hard look. It’s almost fatherly. “Treat her right.”

“I will.” With that, he turns and shuffles back in and closes the door.

“I’m an asshole,” I mutter under my breath and jog toward the stairs. Without care, I pull it open and race down the few flights while the door bangs closed behind me.

Jesus, my poor girl is unwell, and I am here worrying about her showing up for work. On her not being angry with me enough to quit and never forgive me.

Fear is a controlling emotion, and this moment has taught me a few things: I love her.

Need her. Want to take care of her for the rest of her life.

Those are my thoughts as I burst through the door of her building and come to a complete stop. The image before me isn’t making any sense.

She’s there. My Millie.

However, she isn’t alone.

There’s an older lady with her that could easily pass as her grandmother, and a small child in Millie’s arms. The latter holds my attention.

She’s young, at the most two years old, and looks like Millie.

She has a daughter? What the fuck?

It’s as that thought passes through my mind that Millie looks up and our eyes meet. A deer caught in headlights is what she resembles, and it further pisses me off.

Not because she has a daughter, but because of her lies. Someone already had her. Owns a part of her that should’ve been mine.

“W-What are you doing here?” she stutters, passing the sleeping child off to the lady beside her. Almost shielding her from me, and that spikes my anger. Stokes the inferno growing within. “You shouldn’t be here.”

“You lied, Camille.” My tone is much harsher than I intend, especially when the woman, who I assume is her grandmother, pulls her back a step. She’s looking between us with concern but doesn’t voice anything.

The resting angel in her arms whines, and Millie looks over with a small smile. It almost warms my breaking heart how she gently raises the small princess blanket over her back. How she moves a small piece of hair out of her face so she can rest peacefully.

“Not now, Jet. I have other things to deal with.” While her words are a bit cutting—she doesn’t want me here—I see the fear behind those bright blue, expressive eyes as they flicker my way. I notice how her body is positioned in a protective stance slightly in front of them.

“I’m not leaving without an explanation.” I take a few steps toward them, almost touching Millie. Recognition flashes across the older lady’s face, and she leans into my girl. Whispers something in her ear.

Camille nods. “Take her upstairs and put her to bed. I’ll be up in a minute…please.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’ll be fine.” With that reassurance, the lady takes the child inside the building.

Neither of us speak after the door closes. We just stand there in the middle of the sidewalk watching the other. She’s nervous, and I’m fuming.

Neither is a good combination.

“Who’s the father, Camille?” At my question, she tilts the head to the side, wearing an expression of confusion.

“What?” Any other moment I would find this adorable, but not now. Her evasion only fuels the jealousy churning within my gut.

“Not the time for games. Answer me.” Taking another step closer, I invade her personal space, lowering my face so my lips are right beside her ear. “Who’s your daughter’s father?”

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