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Mia is quietly thoughtful, and then she asks almost in a whisper, so as to not let the boys hear, “Do you think it’s going to get better?”
“Doubt it," Chase replies from the backseat, clearly having heard his moms low voice. “I think we're always going to hate the Badgers, no matter what you say, Mom."
“Gee, thanks Chase,” Mia says sarcastically, and her son smiles mischievously. I suppose the boy enjoys riling his mother up a little bit. Another thing we share.
“It’ll work itself out," I say. “Kids don’t tend to hold grudges for very long. By their first game, they’re going to have to learn to work with each other. Or lose. And I don’t think they'll pick the latter.
Mia sighs. "I hope you’re right."
"I usually am," I inform her, and she rolls her eyes again but a smile tickles the corner of her lips.
When we get home, Chase and Mikey head up to their respective rooms and Mia heads up too, to get ready for the gala. I told her we’d need to leave by five, even though the gala starts at nine. My reason is a surprise.
By the time the babysitter gets here, Mia comes down in a black midi-dress that hugs her curves in all the right places, showing off the grace of her movements.
She's attaching an earring as she descends. “Alright. I already talked to Chase and everything, ran by the rules." She grins at the babysitter who waves back.
"I don't need to remind Mikey of the rules," I tell her.
"Ok. Then I'm ready to go."
"Perfect." I offer her my arm and she takes it. For a second, our eyes meet. Mia’s so beautiful, although relatable and girl-next-door looking, but those glowing eyes, that hair over cascading over one shoulder, and those lips.
“What?" She says self-consciously. “Do I look weird?”
I shake my head.You look beautiful.But voicing that would lead down a dangerous path. Instead, I clear my throat. "Alright, let’s go."
As usual, when I get to the garage, I gesture to the cars. "Take your pick."
She shudders a little. "They all look like black death traps."
I laugh. Most women like my cars because they're a symbol of wealth and status. Some even pretend to understand my love for cars and rattle off stats to impress me. But Mia shows her disgust plainly.
I wonder what she’s going to say when she sees my surprise.
“Where's the gala at by the way?” she asks as we drive. “I’m guessing at one of the large conference halls in the city? McGivey?“
“You’ll see," is all I say, and she glances at me suspiciously.
"I don’t like that answer."
"You don’t like any of my answers."
"Yes, but I don’t like that one, especially."
I fight not to grin like an idiot. "'I'm not leading you to your doom if that's what you're wondering."
"Then why does it feel like it?" she asks, sounding curious and irritated at the same time. "I swear, if this is one of your elaborate schemes, I'm never going to forgive you."
"It's not," I say. "Trust me."
"Hah," she scoffs, but then she rests back against the seat, not asking any more questions.
In fact, she doesn't say anything else, until we get off the highway, turning to an exit with a large distinct sign.
"The sign says airport," she points out.
I don't say anything.
