Did I really think I could do this and still hate him?

Yes.

Because I’m stupid. I wonder what flower means “foolish,” because I’ll have to get that one next.

Aidan pulls his phone from his pocket, and after a few taps on the screen that I see out of the corner of my eye, he holds it to his ear. His eyes are on me and I can feel them burning into me. The intensity has shivers rolling down my spine and across my skin, each one leaving a trail of goose bumps in its wake, each one leaving me colder and colder despite the heat of his gaze.

“Tate,” he says. “Call Marc. Tell him to get a statement written that we can put out about the fans’ behavior toward the girls. . . . No, Jessie’s car was egged and flour-bombed this afternoon. . . . Yeah . . . All right.” He drops the phone into his pocket and wraps his arms around my shoulders, pulling me into him.

I rest my cheek on his shoulder, and swallow back the lingering lump at the bottom of my throat. “You didn’t need to do that,” I lie, snaking my arms around his waist. “I’m just tired and overreacted. It’s nothing.”

“No, it ain’t nothing,” he replies, his voice soft. “It was nothing while it was nothing to you, but it stopped being nothing when it started affecting you. And you know what, baby? It started being something to me when you became something to me.”

“Rule breaker,” I whisper, knowing the hypocrisy of my words.

“Always. Remember that time I broke my leg in high school? It was because, at sixteen, I still broke the ‘look both ways’ rule when crossing a road.”

I shake my head. “You’re a total idiot.”

“I know. I’m embracing it.” He smiles against the side of my head, then kisses it. “Let’s go. Tate’s calling Marc.”

“You know it won’t matter, don’t you?” I ask as he grabs my hand and leads me back over to the truck. “You know they’ll still send stuff?”

“Yeah.” He shrugs. “But at least I can say we tried, right?”

“Right. And, Ads? Thank you. For trying.”

“Hey, no worries.” He cups my chin, eyes finding mine. “I told you, when something is something to someone that’s something to me, then I’m going to kick that something’s ass until it becomes a nothing again.”

“Say something again. Go on. I dare you.” I narrow my eyes, and my lips tug up at the corners.

He grins widely, stepping back. He grabs the edge of the door, and just before he pushes it closed, he whispers, “Something.” His smile widens even more, until he’s humming with teasing and playfulness, fingers drumming quickly on the truck’s frame, and instead of shoving him when he gets in the truck, I just turn my face away so he doesn’t see me laughing.

Damn him.

I tuck my feet beneath me, and resting my elbow on the arm of the chair, I cup my chin with my hand. Mila is sitting cross-legged on the garage floor with one of Kye’s old guitars, gently running her fingers across the strings. She giggles every time she plucks one hard enough that the sound vibrates through the air. Said guitar is also decorated with her new chalks.

“Tinkle, tinkle, ittle sarrrr,” she sings, randomly plucking the strings. Out of tune, naturally. “I wonner whachu arrrrr!”

“Come here,” Aidan says, holding his arms out to Mila.

“No.” She juts out her bottom lip, grabbing the guitar tightly.

“Let me help.” He sits down behind her, resting his legs either side of her tiny body, and readjusts the guitar so he can play it. He plays a few notes, and Mila’s face lights up. “See?”

“Tinkle tinkle!” she gasps, clapping her hands against her cheeks. “Oh, my pay tinkle tinkle!”

“Okay. Give me your hand.”

I smile as his large hand covers her positively tiny one. Aidan grabs her finger and plays the notes one by one, and Mila squeals when she finishes.

“Again!” she demands, holding out her pointer finger.

“You gonna sing, pretty girl?”

“Uh-huh!” She nods her head, her messy, dark curls flying everywhere. “Tinkle tinkle ittle sarrr . . .”

My smile grows as she sings along robotically yet enthusiastically to her “playing” the song. The excitement in her eyes is adorable, and it really does bring meaning to the phrase It’s the little things.

It is the little things, because seeing Aidan sitting behind her, coddling her as he makes her think she’s playing the guitar, is something else. His arms, strong and covered in ink, are a complete contrast to her barely brown arms stretching out from beneath a pig-covered T-shirt. And as for how tiny she looks in comparison to him . . . Well.

Let’s just say I’m not sure I’ll see anything this damn hot for the rest of my life, ever.

And my heart?

It might just stutter a little too much.

Aidan looks up and meets my eyes. I move my hand so my smile is somewhat hidden, but he notices it anyway, and the curve of his lips mirrors mine. The look in his eyes—it’s bright, amused, but there’s something else, too. Something knowing.

All I know is that he’s never looked at me this way, ever.

“Fee bind mice!” Mila turns, looking up at Aidan. “You pay fee bind mice?”

“ ’Fraid not, kiddo,” he says regretfully. “Just ‘Twinkle Twinkle.’ ”

“Oh.” She looks down. “My pay drums?”

Aidan looks up, tilts his head from side to side, then drops his head and stage whispers, “Okay, but don’t tell Mama. Deal?”

Mila bounds up, the guitar almost going flying. “Okay!”

I get the impression there’s a lot of “Don’t tell Mama” where the Burke boys are concerned.

As if she heard my thought, Mila looks at me. “Always don’t tell Mama,” she sighs, shoulders heaving and all, and her starting the Dirty B. Diva thing makes so much sense now.

“Well, the last time I let you play them, you pulled all the pots out of the cupboards at five a.m. the next morning and started banging on them with the remote control. Big no-no,” Aidan reminds her, sitting on the stool. He lifts her onto his lap.

“She did what?” I laugh.

“Oh yeah. It was my fault, apparently. Sofie called in a babysitting favor the day she was putting Mila’s big-girl bed together but didn’t tell me. How was I supposed to know? Mila likes drums.” He shrugs. “So if she wants to play the drums, she can. Just no pots tomorrow morning, okay?” he clarifies with her.

“No pots,” she mutters.

Satisfied, Aidan hands her a drumstick. Mila curls her tiny fingers around it and lifts it, then brings it down with a huge bang. Aidan winces, but he doesn’t say a thing as she leans forward and backward, whacking the hell out of his drums.

The crash of the cymbal is the last straw, and I shudder at the ridiculously loud noise. Jesus, that sounds so much better in an actual song.

“Okay, no cymbal, Mila,” Aidan says, directing her hand. “Just the drums.”

“Aw, you no fun.” She bangs them anyway.

Over.

And over.

And over.

Mind you, she does giggle the whole time. It is adorable, I’ll give her that.

“Aidan!” Sofie yells.

I hide my mouth behind my hand. “Uh-oh.”

“Oh crap! Run, Mila!” Aidan puts her down, taking the stick, and nudges her toward the door. “Quick, before she sees you!”

“Oh no, Mama!” Mila yells, arms in the air as she runs across the garage and darts past Sofie.

“Mila, save yourself!” Aidan laughs, ducking behind the drums.

Oh. My. God.

“Oh no, Mama!” echoes through the kitchen and into the garage. Twice. Three times. Four times.

My stomach hurts from holding in my laughter, and even Sofie looks like she’s about to lose it. Aidan is laughing unashamedly, and I hear Kye yell, “Did she catch you? To the beach! Let’s go!” followed by the opening and closing of a door and endless toddler giggles.

“If she pulls the pots out this time, I’m sending her to you and locking her in your room!”

Aidan is still laughing, his arm wrapped around his stomach as he leans forward.