“She was born a preemie. She was delivered at twenty-nine weeks to a mother with opioids in her system. She also has a pretty severe disorder affecting her heart. She spent almost a year in the NICU and had three surgeries. There was always someone poking or prodding her, beeping machines, and people coming and going. Being a deep sleeper is…necessary there.”
My heart is in my fucking shoes. “Is she still sick?” I ask, horrified that this tiny girl had to go through all of that.
Her smile is soft. “She’s doing really well. She might need another surgery down the road. We’ll just have to wait and see.”
I have a million more questions, but we’re pulling up to the drive-thru. “What would you like? What does Mia like in her kid’s meal?”
Her eyes dart between me and the menu. “Ah, I’d love a cheeseburger.”
“Bacon cheeseburger. Combo. With fries and a milkshake? Chocolate?”
Her eyes are wide as she nods. Then looks over at Mia. “She’s never had fast food.” She whispers, and I want to punch something. Mia’s never had it, because Evie couldn’t fucking afford it.
I force a smile. “Then let’s make her first time epic. Cheeseburger, fries, chocolate milk?”
Evie nods again, and I turn away, pretending I don’t see the tears in her eyes. It’s such a simple thing, really. We do it all the time. Hungry? Drive-thru. People can debate the nutritional value of fast food all they want, but the fact is, it comes in handy after a busy day like today. Evie hasn’t had that option, and I’m angry all over again.
The noise of the speaker makes Mia restless, and by the time the food is in the car she’s waking up, her nostrils flaring as she smells the fries and burger-scented air. I hold my breath as she gazes around the car, smiling at her mom first before looking down at the straps of the car seat, playing with them. Evie gently redirects her by opening the bag and pulling out the fries.
“Mama. Me. Me,” she says excitedly, making grabby hands. The kid hasn’t noticed me so I look my fill, fascinated by the interaction. I had a vague idea that three-year-olds could talk, but I don’t know if simple phrases or full sentences is the norm. I guess it doesn’t really matter. I’m not interested in other kids.
Just Mia.
“Hot, baby. Blow on it, so you don’t burn your mouth.” Evie warns her, demonstrating while holding up a fry. Mia puffs up her cheeks, blowing with so much focus and intensity. I’m surprised she doesn’t pass out. A chuckle rolls out before I can stop it and her eyes swing to me. They widen comically. Her lip quivers and I wish I wasn’t such a scary-looking motherfucker.
Evie’s trying to introduce me but stops when I rifle through the bag, pulling out my own fries and shoving a few in my mouth. I make a big production over how hot they are, huffing and blowing, moaning and groaning, my eyes wide, then let the whole mouthful plop back into my hands. “Hot,” I say in a high-pitched voice.
A smile creeps over Mia’s face as I put on my little show, and when I spit everything into my hands, she bursts into peals of laughter. Evie’s laughter joins in. She’s tucked her head near Mia and they’re giggling.
“He’s so silly, isn’t he?”
“So silly yep, Mama.” Her l’s sound like w’s and it’s adorable. Mia shakes her little finger in my face. “Hafta blow.”
And I’m fucking hooked. I spend the rest of the drive to the airport pretending not to know how to eat French fries and generally making an ass out of myself to entertain a three-year-old.
And love every second.
I’m not paying any attention to anything outside this car, trusting my guys to get us to the airport safely while I play with the little angel.
“I thought we were driving. We’re at the airport.” Evie’s eyebrows furrow as we pass the turnoff to the main terminal.
“We are,” I agree, distractedly, busy making faces at Mia. I catch Evie’s frown from the corner of my eye, but she’ll figure it out pretty quick.
Evie’s eyes widen as we pull onto the tarmac and up to our jet, the Brash logo on the tail fin. The jet may have started out as a stupid purchase, but we use it so often now we employ two full-time pilots and a cabin steward. We pay them a fuck of a lot of money to be available whenever we need them, so we were wheels up this morning an hour after I got Holly’s text.
The stairs are down and the guys, along with our pilots Lucas and Joanna, move to the back, grabbing boxes and loading them into the cargo area. Meanwhile, I’m sweating trying to unstrap a wiggly, fry-eating, three-year-old from her car seat. I swear the kid just grew two extra sets of arms. She weighs less than my head, so why the fuck do I feel like I just did an hour-long workout?
Finally, I get her unstrapped and drop her in Evie’s lap, then pull out the car seat. Opening Evie’s door, I lean in. “Time to go, honey.” Her eyes are still focused on the jet, but she’s shaking her head. “You afraid of flying?” I ask, worried I’ve fucked up.
She looks at me, disbelief written all over her face. “You have a private jet?”
“Yeah honey, I do.” I don’t tell her we’re shopping for another one. We’re traveling enough that we still have to fly staff commercially sometimes. Cara never fucking lets us hear the end of it when she’s forced to fly with an airline. You’d think they’re making her eat shit up there in first class.
“I feel like I’m missing a lot of information.” She says, sounding dazed.
Grinning, I step back and open the door wider. “You won’t get answers sitting in this car.”
Scowling, she slides out of the car, reaches in to grab her milkshake, then follows me to the jet. “I need my duffel bag,” she says, watching Marco carry it towards the back.