by Emilia Finn
“Deal. But if you forget to deliver, then I might forget to turn up to work next time you ask her out. Oh look,” she flashes a wide grin when we stop in front of Idalia’s door. “We’re here.”
Unhooking her arm from mine, Arlo skips around to face me, then she changes her facial expression to be stern and commanding. “Mazzi residence. Please state your business.”
Lord, give me strength. “I’m here to see Idalia, please.”
“And your intentions?” She folds her arms over her chest. “I surely hope they’re honorable, Mr. Rosa.”
“My intentions are to toss you out the window to see if you bounce.”
She huffs and scowls the way an angry chihuahua might. “What an unkind thing to say.”
“I’d tell Mitch and Nadia the truth, and all they’d do is nod and admit it was inevitable.”
“Oh, did you hear that?” Arlo cups her ear and tilts it in the direction of Idalia’s living space. “Was that the sound of Max asking Idalia not to leave him with the boring nanny?” She brings her hand in front of her face and studies her nails. “Oh dear. What a shame that would be.”
“Mozzarella sticks, garlic twists, and honorable intentions… with a side of something-something that makes us both smile.”
“You’re nasty,” she laughs. “Keep that shit up. My girl needs a little something-something in her life.”
“Arlo?”
“Oop. That’s my stop.” Arlo grabs the doorhandle and twists it open with ease, then with a grin for me, she disappears inside and swings the door closed again before I can step in.
Fixing my shirt, straightening my collar, and wiping my sweaty palms on my pants, I draw a deep breath and hold it in for five, four, three… Exhaling on one, I bring my hand up and knock.
I’m going on a date with the beautiful, Italian, potty-mouthed mom of a toddler that refuses to speak. I’m going out on a date with the first woman who has ever made me care—and the fact I care scares the shit out of me.
Which, I suppose, makes me understand Idalia’s need to know I’m safe. If I’m already this invested in her and her son, then it’s reasonable to expect she cares that I don’t perish in a fire.
The difference is, she and Max don’t run toward danger on a daily basis the way I do.
A full minute after I knock, I hear the snick of unbolting locks coming from inside Idalia’s apartment. I stand tall and broaden my shoulders. I prepare myself, because it could be Idalia, but it just as likely could be Arlo coming back to tease me some more. I clasp my hands together, stand my ground, and wait… and wait…
Frowning, I stare at the doorhandle with enough heat to warm the knob, then it finally twists.
A moment later, Max stops in the doorway and kills whatever plan I had; to stand tall and compliment the beautiful Idalia, or to huff and plead for mercy from the annoying Arlo.
Instead, I lower to one knee and smile for the inquisitive boy. “Hey there, Mazzi. How was your day?”
He scowls and blinks from beneath his too-long hair.
I stop for a moment and wonder if he’s mad, not because I’m here, and not because I spoke, but because my open question means he has to speak.
With that in mind, I rephrase. “Did you have a good day?”
Relieved, he nods.
I smile. “Are you cool hanging out with Arlo tonight while your mom and I… um…” I choke. “Get pizza?”
Again, he nods. But it’s slower this time. More wary.
“I promise to bring her home in a little bit. Safe and sound, so tomorrow, when you wake, she’ll be here for you to snuggle with.”
He nods again. Acknowledgment, or command, I don’t know.
“Have you eaten, Max? Did you have dinner yet?”
He shakes his head and makes a soft clicking sound in the back of his throat, so I ask, “Will Arlo cook for you?”
He nods.
“That’s good.”
I’ve never before had to communicate with someone who doesn’t speak back, and though he’s only a child, though at this age, his vocabulary probably wasn’t going to be too advanced anyway, it’s still a struggle for me to know if I’m saying the right things. Am I annoying him? Stepping on toes? Does he like me, or am I merely tolerated?
I can’t know until he chooses to let me know. And there’s the possibility he may never do that. He may choose silence for the rest of his life, and even if he speaks for his mom, there’s no guarantee, no promise, he’ll gift me with the same thing.
“Is your mom ready, Max?” I look down at his pyjamas—dump trucks and traffic cones—and smile at the knowledge that she was working less than an hour ago, but now her son is bathed and dressed in his jammies. She’s likely inside, rushing around finishing her hair, and Arlo wasn’t here to help with any of it. “Can you ask—”
Max reaches forward, his movement killing my words, and presses his fingertips to the watch I wear on my left wrist. His brows draw close together, and when I remain still, unsure what I should do, he steps closer so his head and body fit beneath my chin.
“Do you like it?” I ask. “My sister got it for me on my last birthday.”
He nods and presses the dial with the tips of his fingers.
My watch looks like a typical analog face, with the hour and minute hands. But beneath all that is a digital screen, so when he touches, the whole thing lights up; my daily step count shows first, then my heart rate. Temperature, and after that, the date.
Max works his way through the screens, and while he’s busy doing that, he doesn’t notice the shadow that fills the doorway behind him.
Idalia stops just two feet away in a sexy leather skirt and a white blouse with sheer sleeves. She wears heels that give her a couple extra inches, and red lipstick that does all sorts of shit to my heart… my brain… my libido.
“Idalia.” I want to stand, to meet her on her level and pull her close, but Max is still here, and he’s still looking at my watch. Which means I’m stuck down here until he’s done. “You’re so…” I draw a deep breath. “Wow.”
“Am I dressed right?” She bites her bottom lip and gazes down at us. “Too dressed up? Not dressed up enough?”
“Perfect,” I answer instead. “Always so perfect.”
“So complimentary,” she grins. “Max, can you leave Nixon’s watch alone? You’re changing all the settings, bello.”
“No, he’s—” I look down to find my default settings in… is that Dutch? “I don’t speak that one.”
“Sorry.” Giggling, Idalia reaches out for her son and pulls him back until he stands with his back to her front. He twines his fingers with hers and stands tall to show he’s claiming the woman who was, and will always be, his first. “I’ll look online later and get it changed back for you.”
“It’s okay.” Pushing up tall, I let my eyes scour every inch of my date as I rise.
Long legs, tanned and perfect beneath a pair of sheer stockings. The skirt that hugs her every curve and accentuates her hips. Her top, tucked into her skirt, and if I focus above the boy who swings between wanting to be my friend and wanting to kick my ass, I see the black bra she wears underneath. It’s not glaringly obvious, and it’s not like she’s strutting around in see-through clothes. But her shirt is light enough that I see the shadow, the hint of something tasty and tantalizing beneath.
Allowing my study to make it to her delicate collarbone, and then above that, her sharp jawline, plump red lips, and a pert, upturned nose that proves she and Max are directly related, Idalia’s dark eyes glimmer beneath darker mascara and sharp brows, then her hair, full and voluptuous, flows over her shoulders and tickles her biceps.
She is, by all impressions, too fucking perfect to consider dating a guy like me. But that doesn’t stop me from asking her out. It sure as hell doesn’t stop me from hoping she remains blind until long after she develops feelings and sticks anyway.
“I’m, uh…” I bring a hand to my chest and smile. “I don’t kn
ow what to say.”
“So you don’t like what I’m wearing?” She glances down at her top. “I guess I could change if you think—”
“Nope. Don’t change.” I lean in, daring and probably a little too ballsy, and press a kiss to her cheek.
Max stands between us, so I angle my body away and save him from being squished. But that’s all I can do. That’s all I can manage as I press my lips to her soft cheek.
“You take my breath away,” I murmur, low enough only she can hear. “And my words. My willpower.”
Her face warms until the rose spreads to her neck, and then lower. “Thank you. I’m ready if you are.” She pulls back and slides her fingers in Max’s hair until he looks up. “Mommy’s going out to have something to eat, but Arlo will stay with you, okay?”
Idalia takes a step back, to allow her and Max room to talk. She squats lower, even in heels, and makes it look effortless. “This is just like when Mommy is working. If you need me, you take the phone to Arlo, and she’ll call me. Can you say ‘okay,’ Max? Can you show me you understand?”
He shakes his head.
“You won’t say it,” she sighs. “That’s okay. But do you understand?”
He nods.
Idalia forces a smile and presses a kiss to his forehead. When she pulls back, red lips remain behind. A mark he has no clue about, but no doubt it brings her comfort that he’ll go to bed with them there. “Arlo knows all the rules, so you don’t have to worry. You can stay up till eight, but after that, you have to go to sleep, okay?”
He nods.
“Mommy won’t be late. But I expect you to be asleep by the time I get back. No funny business.” She taps his nose and elicits a playful grin. “Tomorrow, we can have a big breakfast, and I’ll tell you all the fun I had, okay?”
Max’s eyes come to mine, glacial and warning as he nods, and that one nod is enough to put me on notice.
Have fun, but make it honorable, and not too much.
“Arlo?” Idalia calls out, but when Arlo immediately steps to the doorway, Idalia squeaks and pushes to her feet. “Geez, you scared me.”
“Sorry.” Sugary sweet smile and over the top gesturing, Arlo brings Max to her side and simpers when her eyes meet mine. “Have fun, bro. I can’t wait to hear all about it.”
I flatten my lips. It’s all I can do with a four-year-old chaperone, but it’s enough, because Arlo’s innocent act falters and she breaks with a laugh.
“Whatever, dude. If you don’t tell me, she will.” She looks to Idalia and bounces her brows. “Girls always share deets.”
Idalia only shakes her head and herds her son and nanny into her apartment. “Go inside, lock the doors,” she orders, but she quick-steps through the still-open door and snags a purse, then comes back into the hall, stopping in front of me, but facing her family.
She’s close enough for me to touch, close enough to smell. And yet, with those toddler eyes on me, she may as well be in the next state.
“Lock the doors,” she repeats. “I’ll have my phone on all night. Bed by eight, no soda between now and then. He can have a cup of water,” she tells Arlo. “But only fill it halfway, and try not to do it too close to bedtime, or he’ll wet. He can eat anything in the kitchen, but ration the sugar.”
“Not sure I know how to do that, Momma.” Arlo places her hand on Max’s chest and walks him backward through the door. “Bed by eight, not too much water, G-rated movies, one book at bedtime.”
“Si—”
“I’m probably gonna crash in the spare room,” she continues. “I didn’t do my laundry, which means I have no clean sheets or towels at home, so it’s best I have this place tonight anyway.”
“You live with my brother and Nadia,” I scowl. “How do you not have clean sheets?”
“Mitch said I have to do them myself.” She wrinkles her nose. “I didn’t do it.” She looks to Idalia. “I’ll be here all night, and once I’m asleep, I’d rather stay asleep, so don’t wake me at ten or eleven to say you’re home.”
“O—Oh, alright.”
“Stay out as late as you want,” she flashes a wild grin. “See you in the morning.”
“Arlo, n—”
“I love you both, but I have Stephen King’s IT teed up on the TV, and I’d hate for Max to miss the important details, so we’ve gotta go.”
“Arlo!”
“Max says ‘Goodnight, Mommy.’ Don’t forget the mozzarella sticks.” Every word she speaks, she takes a step back. “And the garlic twists. And the fun stories.”
Then, with absolutely no tact, Arlo slams the door in our faces and laughs all the way inside the apartment.
“It’s gonna be fine.” I take Idalia’s hand in mine and squeeze while she remains still, staring at the door. “You know Arlo has it under control.”
“She’s got a Stephen King movie on, and my son is going to pass out from a sugar coma.”
“You know that’s not true,” I chuckle. “They’re probably gonna watch Postman Pat, and she’ll feed him carrot sticks, because she knows his sugar high is her problem for the next couple hours. You look fucking fantastic, by the way.” I pull her in to my side, and since I’m feeling all sorts of brave, I bring her under my arm and press a kiss to her brow. “You hungry?”
“I mean…” She warms under my touch, and when she smiles, it transforms her face. “Si, I could eat.”
“Do you still want pizza and trolling that asshole teen, even without Max sitting at our table, or…?”
“Your house?” she murmurs. Glancing up shyly, but with a twinkle in her eye, she adds, “Cook for me again?”
“Really?”
She nods. “Pretend this is your one and only shot. Your best meal, the absolute most perfect dish you can cook on your own, then present it to me with accompanying wine or beverage, and if you think you can manage it, add music and candles.”
“Jesus,” I exhale. “That’s a fuckload of pressure, Italy. Nobody said I was a master chef.”
“You’re a single man who lives in a home made for a large family. Your kitchen is legions better than mine, and though I don’t particularly want to touch on the topic, you’re a firefighter—and everyone knows they can cook.”
“How does everyone know that, huh?” I lead her down the ornate staircase and smile at the paintings, the lighting, the wallpaper and tapestries. This place used to be a dump, and now, it’s fit for royalty. It’s beautiful, regal. A true representation of its owner.
“Because most firefighters work twenty-four-hour shifts, no? Which means someone has to cook dinner.”
“Never heard of takeout?”
She scoffs. “I’ve seen you guys work out. No way are you pushing yourselves that hard only to trash it all with a greasy burger.”
“Wait…” I pull her closer and grin. “You watch me work out?”
“It’s a small town.” She blushes and snuggles in close as we hit the next landing and continue down. “I have eyes. I have the common decency to stop and watch if the opportunity is right.”
“Pervert,” I chuckle. “And sure. Game on. I have the perfect thing to make for you. With a drink. And music. And if I’m feeling like I want the extra dazzle, I might even whip up some dessert.”
“Well…” She smirks and bites her bottom lip as we walk. “Deal. Are we walking or driving?”
“We’ll drive,” I answer. “I figure you’ll be more comfortable. On the off-chance Arlo calls and wants you to come home, it’s better to have the truck, rather than have to run across town in heels.”
“He cooks,” she murmurs. “Makes reservations for three, and is considerate of my need to move across town quickly. Just in case.” She rests her hand on my hip and moves with my step. “Would you consider booting Rory from her job in dispatch and taking it yourself?”
I bark out a loud laugh and shake my head. “Not for a while yet. Come on—”
“Ms. Mazzi?” The weekend receptionist, not the same girl I passed on t
he way up, steps toward the bottom of the staircase and waits for us to descend.
Idalia, flipping into work mode, stands straight and releases my hip, but although I want to glower about it, I know it’s what she needs to do to maintain control and respect inside this new business venture of hers.
So instead of getting mad about a rejection that isn’t about me at all, I follow Idalia toward the girl, and smile when we all meet at the bottom of the stairs.
“I got a note that the builder came through this morning, Ms. Mazzi, and while he was here, he okayed a delivery of gym equipment. They stored it in the basement. I was told to tell you it’s down there.”
“Oh, sure. Okay.” Idalia turns and smiles for me. “We’re installing a gym for hotel guests to use in the basement. Do you wanna see?”
“Sure.” I extend a hand, but my offer is without pressure, and without putting on a show for her staff and guests. It’s just a hand, just something to hold while we traverse a staircase.
Idalia rewards me when she takes it, then again when she smiles. “It’ll only be a moment,” she promises. “Then we have other things to see to.”
Yeah we do.
While we walk away from the receptionist and into the colder, more dungeon-y type staircase that leads to the basement, I plan in my mind the ingredients I’ll need for this grand meal. I mentally shop my fridge, make certain I have the things I need, the wine—perhaps I’ll opt for beer instead—and then once I’ve done that, I think of music.
Something to talk around, or something to dance to? Something smooth, sultry and sexy, or will I jump straight to Hootie and the Blowfish, simply to impress her with how random I can be?
“Oh, these look fantastic.” The moment we reach the basement floor, Idalia releases my hand and moves to a wall of weights.
Three treadmills stand pushed up against another wall, and beside those, three ellipticals. She’s dropped an easy ten or fifteen grand on what’s in here alone, and there’s still so much more to add.
“We’re doing a wall of mirrors,” she says… to me? To herself? “over here. And some beautiful big beams above.” She points straight up to a massive steel beam that rests amongst falling fibro and messy air vents. “The floor is still dirt.” She looks down. “But I’m considering my options on that. I could just pour concrete and cover it up. Or maybe I’ll have Jake build a frame just a little off the floor, then we can add modular floorboards. Whatever we add, it must be hardy and strong.”