by Emilia Finn
“Who’s Jake?”
Grinning, Idalia shakes her head and continues around to the far side of the space, beyond the steel column digging into the floor at the halfway point, while I remain on the other side. “He’s my builder. I was very fortunate to find him. He’s a handyman of all trades, and he’s kind too.”
“Is he sixty and balding?”
“Nope. He’s about thirty, and he works out too.” Her eyes come to mine. “But I didn’t accept his offer for dinner. I did accept yours.”
“Well, alright.”
Pleased, I let her finish her study of the hotel’s new toys, and while she does that, I take stock of the room’s walls. The ceiling. The dirt floor.
“You’ll probably need another exit,” I murmur, “for safety. And air ventilation.”
“An exit and electricity,” she adds. “There’s some down here already, for the hot water supply going into the kitchens above, but that’s not enough. I’ll have to get an electrician in to fix that.”
“Probably best he rewires the whole space. New wiring, new fire-proof insulation.”
When my words catch up with my brain, my eyes shoot to her pale face. “I’m sorry.” I move across the space that separates us and pull Idalia against my chest. “It’s habit for me to think of that stuff.”
“It’s okay,” she mumbles. “Nothing I haven’t already considered myself.” She snuggles closer instead of pushing away, so I bundle her up and press a kiss to the top of her hair. “It’s fine.”
“Do you wanna get dinner yet?”
“Yup.” Fast as a snake, she pushes away and turns to wipe a hand over her cheek. “Sorry for hijacking our night with this.”
“You don’t have to apologize.” I lead her toward the stairs, and when she follows and takes my hand on the way up, I know that we’re okay.
I have a big mouth, and she has trauma she needs to work through, but we’re still here, still touching, and she’s not running away. We’re more okay now than we ever have been to this point, so I vow to watch my mouth, and when the timing is right, I’ll ask her to kiss me once more.
Just once, just for that chance to feel pure bliss for the second time.
After that… we’ll see what happens.
It takes only a couple of minutes for us to leave the hotel, climb into my truck, and drive to my place. Then I lead Idalia out of the passenger seat, smug in the knowledge that she dressed up but no one else will see it. On her own request, we’re here, at my home, which means she did all that for me.
I lead her through my front door and into my dark living room, then I flick the lights on and grit my teeth when my eyes fly to the coffee mug on the arm of my couch, and in front of that, boots and dirty socks.
“Sorry.” I drop her hand and rush forward to collect my things. “I wasn’t expecting company.”
“And yet, apart from what is clearly a scene of you getting home from work, having a coffee, and taking your shoes off, there’s no mess.” She walks my living room and studies the framed photos like she did last time she was here. “You should see my bathroom right now. You would know I’m not passing judgment then.”
I breathe out a soft laugh and pitch my shoes into the corner of the room. I ball my socks, and snag the coffee mug, then I rush through to deposit each where they go. I toss my socks into the laundry room—admittedly, on the floor—then I wash my hands in the sink and dry them on the towel.
“Do you want me to get started with dinner?” I call out.
“Si, I’m starving. Though, considering my heritage, I hope your meal includes carbs.”
“It does,” I chuckle. “The best kind. Make yourself comfortable.” I move through the kitchen and into the dining room. Stopping by the doorway, I meet her eyes. “Come join me when you’re ready, but don’t peek at what I’m cooking.”
“Oh, a surprise?” Her smile grows as she turns and meets my eyes.
She’s stunning, enigmatic, and way too untouchable for a guy like me. And yet…
“You said yes to my dinner offer.”
“Hmm?” Her red lips glisten with a smile. “What do you mean?”
“You said yes to my offer for dinner.”
“Er… si. That’s why we’re here, no?”
“Yes,” I laugh. “That’s exactly why we’re here.”
I spin away before I throw all dinner plans aside and choose to wrap my arms around her waist instead, and the moment I’m in the kitchen, I begin preparing our meal. I grab a pan from the cupboard and toss it onto the stove, then I light the gas flame before moving to my fridge to collect ingredients.
I keep my mind busy and think ahead, while simultaneously trying not to get too ahead of myself, since Idalia is for sure the type to cut a guy down if he becomes too presumptuous. Finally, grabbing the cheese and butter, I hip-bump the fridge closed.
“Mmm. My two favorite ingredients.” Idalia stops in the doorway and crosses her arms. “Cheese and butter are a girl’s best friend.”
“I told you not to peek.”
Smirking, she drops her arms and saunters into my kitchen.
I’m not worried about what she’ll find, though. I washed my dishes before heading out, all except that lone mug, which means my counters are clean and there’s no funky smell to make me wonder if rodents are fucking beneath the dishwasher.
Stopping at the counter, Idalia glances down at a stool and waits for my nod. The moment I give it, she pulls one out and settles in with a fold of her legs and a smile that says if anyone’s going to get fucked up by what we’ve started between us, it’s going to be me.
She has no purse in here, which means she must’ve left it in the living room somewhere, but her phone remains in her hand, the screen lighting every minute or so.
“Busy woman?” I turn my back on her and continue preparing dinner without her beady eyes spoiling the surprise. “Doesn’t that send you insane?”
“Si,” she snickers. “It does, but it’s set on mute, except for the important things that must come through. For as long as those notifications stay silent, I can ignore them and enjoy a nice date with a nice man.”
“Nice man?” I make a show of looking around the room. “Where?”
She scoffs. “You’re so nice, Mr. Rosa, I’m sure that in itself is a red flag. What deep dark secret are you hiding from me?”
“That I fart at work a lot,” I admit with a smile. “It’s habit now, and no one there says anything about it. But then I have to remember that here, in the real world, farting is actually pretty fucking gross.”
Amused, Idalia traces the veins in my stone countertop with the tip of her finger. “It’s really, really gross. Please don’t fart around me.”
“Ever?” I meet her eyes over my shoulder.
“Ever,” she confirms. “It’ll forever change how I feel about you.”
Chuckling, I look back to my meal and toss the first serving onto the heat. “And how do you feel about me?”
I meet her eyes once more, and when she turns her back on me to rest her elbows on the counter as she gathers her thoughts, I take the opportunity to race to my fridge and collect a couple of beers.
I know she’s Italian, and I know they’re partial to wine, and this is a first date, so I should be going fancy, but for this meal, a beer is best.
I set the bottles on the counter with a clink, and searching my drawer for a bottle opener, I set that down beside them, then I push the lot across the gleaming surface and go back to cooking—and covering it with my bulky frame. “Can you open those for me?”
“Si.”
I watch in my peripherals as she spins back and starts working with the bottles.
“And, to answer your question, I feel…” She draws a deep breath, only to release it on a gentle exhale. “Listened to. Acknowledged. Respected.”
Our eyes meet for a single, heated moment.
“Even when we were, uh… busy, and getting carried away with our wants, you respected me
. I feel seen, and wanted. Wanted and respected enough that you’re going way slower with all of this than you would like. I feel cherished, in that you’re here, cooking a special meal all for me. And I feel relieved that not once in all of this have you ignored the fact I have a son. Max will always be my priority above all else. Above the Oriane, above any prospective dates. Above myself, forever and foremost.”
“Which is how it should be,” I reply. “Except the eternal ‘above yourself’ thing.”
She lifts a single, challenging brow. “You think I should put my needs above those of my child?”
“No. But I think it’s inevitable that at times, you’re going to be exhausted and frustrated, and on those days, I hope you can allow yourself a little grace, put Max to bed, pour a glass of wine, and run a hot bath for yourself.” I flip our meal in the heat and take care not to splash myself with boiling oil. “If his bedtime is at eight, but at seven-thirty, you’re at your wits’ end and need a breather, I hope you put yourself first, send him to bed a few minutes early with a kiss on the brow and a cuddle goodnight, and then after, you take care of yourself.”
“Red flags everywhere.” Joking, she waves a hand in my direction. “No one is actually this thoughtful. You’re only telling me what I want to hear.”
Her words are like a bee’s sting, but it’s momentary and then gone. “If that’s what you think, then I guess it’s my responsibility to teach you otherwise. I can only teach you by my actions, consistent and conscientious. Didn’t your… um… Max, your late husband… was he not nice?”
“He was nice,” she answers. “He wasn’t not nice. He was just a normal guy.”
Scowling, I turn back and study her thoughtful gaze. “What does that mean?”
“It means that human beings, by design, are usually selfish. I don’t mean that in a horrible way, but more of a defense thing. If there’s only one fry left and you’re still hungry, you’re going to eat it.”
“Not if my wife and child are still hungry.”
“Everyone has their own interests,” she pushes. “Hobbies outside of work and family. Max’s was to tinker with cars—fast cars, old cars, broken cars, and anything between.”
“So he put his hobby ahead of his family?”
“No! He just had a hobby he enjoyed when he had the time.”
“Which was how often?” I demand. “Once a month? Once a week? Why, when you say that I’m too nice and must be hiding something, does your husband’s hobby come into the discussion? His want for the last fry? What did he do for work?”
“He traveled,” she snaps. “And the reason I brought it up is because Max was a good husband and father. In fact, he was great. But he was able to be great even while being selfish sometimes. The fact that you assert you have no imperfections makes me assume you’re hiding something massive.”
“Or, maybe, I’m just nice and would never dare take the last fucking fry. And I never said anything about being perfect. That’s on you.”
I turn back to our meal, flip the first helping onto a plate to cool, then I toss the next into the heat and know that three minutes from now, I get to eat for the first time in hours.
“I’m not here to shit on your husband, Idalia. But since you brought it up, and by default, you assume I’m hiding something because I’m not an asshole, then I’ll tell you straight up… If a dude travels for work, is never home, and when he is, he’d rather be out working on his hobby and eating the last of the fries, then perhaps your view of good and decent is skewed. But what do I know? I’m just a hose jockey with poor impulse control and an inability to run fast.”
I huff and stare at the pan, our sizzling meal, and my hands, balled and wanting to strike out at a guy who earned the love of a woman who can now never truly let go, since he’s dead and immortalized as ‘decent and normal’.
But then Idalia’s laughter breaks my mood.
I turn to find her wiping her eyes and laughing so hard that her chest bounces.
“What?” I turn the gas off on the stove and stare at the cackling woman. “What’s so fucking funny?”
“You’re really clinging to that third-grade cross country ribbon,” she giggles so hard that she chokes, which leads to more laughter. “Oh my god, Nixon. You must’ve been so happy when they gave it to you.”
“I was!”
“And now you hold onto it as though it’s a priceless artifact.”
“It is!” I set my spatula down and snarl. “I will never again win one of those. That makes it priceless.”
“And are you aware you can buy a hundred-pack of those ribbons at the stationery store for five-ninety-nine?”
“I j— I w— You’re—” I throw my hands in the air “Argh! Fuck you!”
Idalia wheezes and wipes tears from her eyes. “Your red flag is your obsession with that ribbon! You’re crazy.”
“And you’re a pain in my ass.”
I move to my cupboard and take out two fresh plates. Grabbing a knife from the block, I cut our meal into quarters to make it easier to eat, then plating them up, I slide the whole dish across the counter with a clang and a slide of ceramic on stone, then I come around to her side and drop down on the stool next to the woman who enjoys taunting me.
“Eat your damn food, Mazzi.”
“It’s…” She hiccups and tries to get herself under control. “It’s…. Is that…” She looks to me with a red face. “Is that grilled cheese?”
“Yes! Welcome to my fuckin’ home. Eat the damn carbs and shut up with your smart mouth.”
“I’ve found your button,” she howls. “I’ve found it, and it explodes at barely more than a feather’s touch.”
“Yup. I don’t wanna talk about it.”
“I was so expecting pasta,” she hiccups again. “Bolognese, or maybe alfredo.”
“Nope. This is what you get.”
“And a beer,” she snickers. “I said go hard, impress me with your best meal, and you serve grilled cheese and beer.”
“Yup.” Then I double-clap and speak to my phone. “Play Hootie and the Blowfish.” I look to Idalia and glower. “Food, drinks, music. Just as you ordered, you fuckin’ diva.”
Snorting, she actually spits on her meal and pitches forward. “Your mad is hilarious.”
“It’s not hilarious! It’s terrifying. It’s red flag city. It’s you wanting to run away and save yourself from the big fat jerk.”
“No.” Her chest bounces from the sounds she desperately tries to swallow down. “I’ve never done this before. It’s fun.”
“Done what? Be a royal pain in some guy’s ass?”
“Argue,” she answers. “Loud and silly and with pettiness thrown in. I’ve never had a discussion like this before.”
“How is that true? You sure as shit didn’t become this annoying only for me.”
“Perhaps my late husband was more tolerant of my merda,” she giggles. “Or perhaps that’s why he had a hobby and a job outside the home; to escape me.”
“You annoy me,” I growl. “But that doesn’t mean I want to escape you.”
“No?” She rests her elbows on the stone countertop and glances at the side of my face. “What do you wanna do?”
“Fuck you.”
I turn and meet her stunned eyes. “When you look pretty, which is all the time, I wanna fuck you. When you go icy on me, I wanna fuck you. When you annoy the ever-loving fucking shit outta me? Woman, I wanna angry fuck you until I work it out of my system. There’s that red flag you were searching for. Take it, have it, think about it, and let me know how you feel when you’re done. But I assure you, a man who has you this close?” I lean closer prove my point. “He doesn’t need a hobby. He needs a fucking bed… or a wall… even a kitchen counter will do.”
“Nixon, I…” No longer laughing, Idalia drops her half-eaten quarter until it splats against the plate. Then she licks her lips clean and draws my eyes down to the movement. “Jesus.” She looks around my kitchen, at our barely tou
ched dinner, our beers, not more than a sip taken from each. And then she looks down at herself, her heaving chest, her hand on her belly. “You sure as hell know how to have a dinner party.”
“My toxic trait is that I tell the truth, and that I’m obsessively fucking in lust with you.” I place one foot on the tiled floor and stand between our two stools. Bringing my hands up, I cup her face and lower mine so we’re not so far apart. “From the moment I saw you, smart-mouthing me and Beck at the opening gala. Your straight spine, your brow that you somehow control and threaten men with.”
I bring my face closer to hers. My lips, just an inch from hers. “Then you walked away, not in the least bit obsessed with me the way I was you.”
I press my lips to hers and bite until she whimpers. “Then you came out again, dressed like a real-life princess, but still with the sharp tongue and quick wit.”
I pull her to her feet, and grin because her heels bring her that much closer. “The days of being near, but not near enough. Seeing you, in real life, and through my family’s eyes and words. Arlo started working for you, so then every family dinner became about Max. How cool he is, how smart, how fun. And of course, Max can’t be Max without Idalia. So I’d steer the conversation to you, which is how I’d discover what you’ve been up to. I’d learn who you are through everyone else’s interactions with you. And all along, you’d see me, but you’d force that space.”
Idalia should probably be afraid of the conviction in my words, but all she does is loop her arms around my neck. And when she does that, I slide my hands down to her hips and grab on to her ass. Round, full, and enticing as hell.
I press my lips to hers, rough and mean, savagery in lust, but with respect.
Always with respect.
When she nods, I raise her up and set her on the counter. Together, we shove the plates aside, the beers, even her phone, and when our eyes meet once more, I go to work unwrapping my prize.