Caught Up (Windy City, #3)

by Liz Tomforde

He’s got a backwards hat on, dark-rimmed glasses, and a toddler in his arms with a matching cap for goodness’ sake.

“And Ace,” he calls out. “Keep your dick in your pants. We all know how fucking fertile you are, and I’m too young and too goddamn attractive for someone to be calling me Grandpa.”

“Isaiah, Miller. Miller, Isaiah. My brother.” “Buy one, get one. Fun,”

“You good, Baseball Daddy?”

My son looks over to me, a little grin on his lips as if he were silently telling me that, despite my best efforts, she’s staying.

“Coach’s daughter, Kai?” Indy wears a knowing grin. “Interesting. I do love that plot line.”

“If you’re as terrible of a listener in the bedroom as you are in real life, Miller, I can promise you this, you wouldn’t be allowed to come.”

“You keep talking like that, Kai, and I’ll be ditching the ‘baseball’ part and just be calling you ‘daddy’.”

“Hot Nanny alert!” one of them calls as soon as I step on board. From the back half of the plane, where the players sit, twenty-five pairs of eyes peek out into the aisle or over the seat in front of them, wide and excited smiles.

Wordlessly, Kai slides a large hand around my waist, pulling me into a row behind them all. “You’re with me, Montgomery.”

“Dear God, Kai. No wonder you have a kid. Just looking at you like this would get any woman pregnant.”

“Yes, Daddy.” The woman next to her coughs into her fist, reminding us that she’s there. “Baseball Daddy, I mean.”

“I like to see pretty girls in my jersey. Like to take it off them too.”

“You flirting with me, Montgomery?” “Have been since we met. You gonna start flirting back?”

I’m a thirty-two-year-old man getting caught in bed by someone’s father. “Well, I’m not sure how I’m going to scrub this visual out of my brain,” he says dryly.

I guess we’re making some motherfucking banana bread.

Max and Malakai and Miller.

“Hmm.” “What?” “Didn’t say anything.” “You hummed.” “A man’s allowed to hum.” “That was a suspicious hum.” “It was a normal hum. You’re just being paranoid and want to find ways to keep talking about my daughter.” I scoff. “You were the one who brought her up first.” His mouth curves slightly on one side.

Why does the image of those two make my heart scream mine?

“Mama.” Max grins, so proud of himself for saying a name I now realize he’s been trying to say for weeks. “Mama! Mama!”

“Miller,” he says, making sure my attention is on him. “If you ever decide to stop running and make a home . . . Make it with me.”

I simply stopped running when the two best boys I know caught me.”

Banana (Nana) Bread—the one that got me back in my groove. M&M Cookies—named after my favorite people. And finally, the one that makes my eyes burn. Mae’s Tiramisu—for the woman I never got to meet but who raised two amazing men. I hope I follow in your steps by being a fantastic boy-mom.

A knock sounds at the back door of the house and we both turn to find Isaiah, Zanders, Stevie, Ryan, Indy, and Rio with their faces pressed up to the glass, watching us.