Page 12 of Milk For The Billionaire's Little

7

KENNAN

It was so difficult to turn him down.

Hard enough that I didn’t say the word that really needed to be said—no. Just no. No explanation. No sugar coating. One simple two-letter word.

I’d told myself this app thing was a good idea. I thought I could go in, scratch an itch, get what I needed, and leave. Easy. Peasy. Done. But as I sat there, watching the sweet boy sleep, lips still slightly parted and cheek resting against my chest, softened by my milk, my mind kept wandering.

Wandering into dangerous territory.

I kept imaginingus. Not in that dingy motel, but somewhere better. Going on a date. Me buying him little gifts—a silly hat that made him giggle or a stuffed animal I knew he’d name. I imagined him curled up in my bed, the real one, the big one, dozing off on my chest as we watched old cartoons with the volume low.

None of which could happen. None of whichshouldhappen.

That wasn’t the deal.

It was best to cut him off now. Best to forget the entire foolish notion and move on.

I called my driver, not wanting to go back to the hotel where my car was parked. He could deal with that in the morning. When I climbed into the back seat, he turned to ask something… probably just checking in, maybe offering a bottle of water or a comment about traffic, but I cut him off with a look.

“I’m not in the mood to discuss anything.”

He nodded and didn’t say another word. That was one of the perks of hiring well.

I leaned my head back and closed my eyes, replaying the entire evening on an endless loop—his nervous smile, the way his fingers trembled before he touched me, the sweetness in his gaze when he drank, and finally, the peaceful look on his face as he fell asleep, safe and full and tucked in my arms.

When we pulled up to my house, I still had his shirt. I’d never given it back. It had gotten lost somewhere in all the awkwardness that was our good-bye, and if I was being honest with myself, really honest, that was probably intentional on some level.

Once I was inside, I climbed the stairs slowly and went straight to my suite. I sat on the edge of the bed, pulled the shirt out, and brought it up to my cheek. There were still faint damp patches where the faucet had sprayed him, a reminder of the moment when I rushed in to help him. It was ridiculous, but I held onto it a bit longer than I should have.

Imissed him. Already.

I didn’t even know his last name. If I had it, I’d be able to find out more. Seth, my assistant, was the king of digital trails—he could take a single blurry screenshot and track it to its origin in no time. But would that be fair to James?

Fuck.

Why was this so hard?

Nothing about him screamed gold-digger. He hadn’t asked for anything.Hegot the hotel room.Hepaid for my services with overtime, not credit cards. That wasn’t someone lazy trying to hitch himself to a free ride. That was someone who worked for what he wanted. Someone a lot like me in that regard.

I opened the app and refunded the payment. I hovered over the message box for a long time, trying to figure out what to say.

You needed more than me?

No. That wasn’t it. That was insulting at best.

Eventually, I typed,For next timeand hit send before I could change my mind.

So much for saying no.

Later that week, we met again. Not in a motel this time, but at a small apartment I kept in the city. It wasn’t much. Just a one-bedroom walk-up with creaky floors and furniture that had seen better decades. But it had been my first place—my first real home, bought with my own money before the success came pouring in.

I kept it for nostalgia. It grounded me. And maybe, in a way, bringing him here was like showing him a piece of myself, unmasked.

Not literally unmasked, of course. That would come later… if ever.

Just like the first time, he drank deeply before slipping into sleep, full and warm and safe. Only this time, he curled up in my old bed, not a scratchy, questionably clean motel mattress. My bed. My space. My sheets.

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