Chasing Fire (Gilded Knights Series Book 2)

by Emilia Finn

  “It’s as good a time as any. It allows you guys time to eat and watch a movie, and still have plenty of time for a big sleep before work tomorrow.”

  “Very thoughtful of you.”

  She smirks. “Thoughtful is my middle name. If you want help, I can hang around today to juggle Max while you nap, since we both know you haven’t slept yet. Then I’ll hang and help you with dinner, and make a discreet exit right when Nixon arrives.”

  “And by ‘discreet’…”

  “I mean I’ll turn it into a whole thing. There might be balloons.”

  I press my lips together. “You can leave now.”

  She laughs—something she often does when I dismiss her—and ignores me; another thing she does when I want her out of my space. “I’m gonna be here for breakfast at least. Get you guys set up. Plus, I think it would be disorienting for Max to go to sleep with me here, but wake with me gone, so…”

  Her words are genuine, her kindness, real. Her affection for my son is the very reason she’s never truly fired, even when she sends me to the brink of insanity. At this point, she and I are co-parenting my child, and she’s so good for him, I could never tear them apart.

  “Alright,” I murmur. “Stay for breakfast.”

  “Thanks. French toast? I know your people like that.”

  Stunned, I rock on my heels for a moment and meet her eyes. “You know France and Italy are two separate countries, right?”

  Again, she makes the psht sound in the back of her throat. “Yeah right. Funny joke, Idalia.” She pushes away from the counter and heads toward the door that leads into my bedroom. “I’ll get breakfast started. You finish washing away your night of debauchery. Then we’ll meet in the middle when Max wakes, and prepare him for your dinner guest.”

  16

  Idalia

  Dinner

  Nerves flutter in my belly as the clock closes in on six, and my hands shake from the adrenaline of what’s about to happen.

  I mean, it’s just dinner; something I’ve already done in the last twenty-four hours. But this time, it’s in my home… in front of my son… and my stomach isn’t handling things well.

  I fix Max’s shirt, the buttons he fastened himself, and when I’m done with those, I pull his pants up neatly, and place his headphones back over his ears, since he’s as nervous as me.

  Perhaps more so.

  I’ve spent the day dropping hints and normalizing dinner guests for my son, and when I officially dropped the bomb and told him Nix was coming over, Max reacted the way he does: not with crying and tantrums, the way many his age would, but with distance, silence, and eventually, a request for headphones to shut us out.

  The cord isn’t plugged into anything, which means there’s nothing playing in his ears, and when I speak, he hears me. Nevertheless, he’s asking for space by wearing them, and I have no choice but to honor his wishes and hope he comes around at some point tonight.

  No matter how much I love to like Nixon, this all stops dead in the water if my son isn’t comfortable with it. That would suck, for sure, but it is what it is. I don’t have rights here… Max does. All I have are responsibilities to parent him well.

  Arlo flitters around my kitchen, long ago changed out of her pyjamas and into cutoff shorts, an unbuttoned flannel shirt over a tight white tank top, and on her feet, her prized cowboy boots. I didn’t realize my nanny keeps a spare wardrobe in my home, but seeing as this particular nanny is Arlo, I probably should have expected it.

  We decided on tacos, since they’re easy and a sure hit with the Mexican-loving Portuguese man, so while she stirs the beef on the stove, I finish up with Max and try not to let my anxiety leach into him.

  Try, being the operative and overly hopeful word.

  “You know Nixon, right? The fireman. He’s Arlo’s friend, and Mommy’s too,” I babble, “so he’s coming over to visit with us. Can you tell me, bello, are you okay with that? Is it okay if he comes into our home?”

  “Stop coaching him toward getting you out of this night!” Arlo calls from the kitchen. “Suck it up, Italy, and be a woman about it.”

  “Taci!” I meet Max’s innocent eyes and soften my tone. “You just have to tell me you don’t want this, and I’ll make it go away. And this isn’t blackmail for words. You can just shake your head, bello.” I shake mine. “Like this. Just shake your head if you hate what Mommy has done.”

  I stop speaking. Stare at his face. And wait for something that never comes.

  “Okay, well, can you nod your head if you are okay with this?” I nod mine. “Can you do that?”

  He does nothing.

  “I just need to know, bello! I’m dying from not knowing and worrying.”

  “You’re putting grownup business on a four-year-old’s shoulders,” Arlo singsongs. “Whether he likes it or not, he’s too young for you to be asking those questions.”

  “Taci!” I hiss louder than the last. I look to Max and smile. “How about… I love you. I’ll say I love you, and just so I know your nodder is still working, you can nod as your way of saying it back.”

  He nods.

  “Gah!” I pull him close and crush him to my chest. “I love you, bello. You’re always going to be my number one, okay? I promise. For the rest of your life.”

  “That’s okay,” Arlo sings. “I’ll always be Nixon’s number one, so it all works out.”

  “Silenzio!”

  I jump when the doorbell rings, and when I push to stand straight, my stomach whooshes with the momentum, and threatens to escape my throat.

  “Oh god.”

  “Bet you said that a lot last night,” Arlo sniggers. “God sure is a popular man when it comes down to it.”

  “Ti ucciderò!”

  I flatten Max’s tousled hair with a shaking hand, and when Arlo’s smug stare burns into the side of my head, I groan and turn toward the door. “I guess I’ll just… um…”

  “Yeah, you should get that,” she laughs. “Good thinkin’, Ninety-Nine.”

  “You are too young to even know what that means!”

  “Pot, meet Italy. You’re also too young, and in the wrong country, Frenchie.”

  “I swear, if you’re teaching my son your version of geography, you’re in so much trouble!”

  I push through the first front door and circle around the table in the middle, then I stop at the next and take a deep breath.

  “It’s gonna be fine,” I murmur to myself. “It’s gonna be totally fine.”

  “It is going to be fine,” Nixon’s deep timbre rumbles through the door. “Open up, and I promise it’ll be okay.”

  “Godddd.” Closing my eyes, I open the door and release an exhale of ‘I’m so awkward and stupid.’ Opening them again, I’m immediately caught in Nixon’s smile. “Um… hello.”

  “Hey.”

  Nixon stands at my door in jeans and a flannel shirt much like Arlo’s, and also covering a white shirt, but his is less feminine, much broader at the shoulders, and doesn’t show an inch of stomach. He holds a box at his side, wears jeans that draw my eyes down to his boots, and when I say nothing more, when I don’t move, he peeks around me to make certain the coast is clear.

  When he’s satisfied, his grin grows as he leans in and places a slow, tormentingly gentle kiss on my lips, then he pulls back only a fraction of an inch and says, “you’re so much more beautiful than I remember.”

  “Can’t be true,” I rasp in response. “I did my hair and makeup last night. Tonight, I’m working with zero sleep, no makeup, and twelve liters of coffee. “

  “Around here, we drink by the gallon,” he teases. “And still, the true beauty beneath the makeup is what makes you that much more beautiful.”

  He drops another kiss on my lips before straightening up. “No regrets, right? You’re freaking out, I can see that. But is it typical freaking out, or is it the burn of regret that isn’t letting you invite me in right now?”

  “Oh, merda!” I skip out of the way a
nd extend a hand toward my living room. “I’m freaking a little,” I admit as he passes. “But there’s no burning sensation.”

  He stifles a laugh. “That’s lucky, otherwise we might be having a whole other discussion. Everything okay? How was your day?”

  “It was fine. Everything was fine.” I shut the door when my brain catches up and allows me to do so, then I dart across the small foyer and wave him through the next entrance. “Hey, Max.”

  The second we’re in the living room and Max peeks up from where he raced to hide on the couch, I smile for my baby and gesture for him to come a little closer.

  He might not come, but I’ll still welcome him. I’ll still guide him and allow him space for bravery.

  “You remember Mr. Rosa, don’t you?”

  Nixon scowls for a single second and gives me a look that says if we were alone, he’d spank me for reverting back to the ‘Mr. Rosa’ nonsense.

  “Hey, Max,” he says. “It’s Nixon, not ‘Mr. Rosa’.” He scrunches his nose and steps a little closer. “How’ve you been, bud? Good?”

  Max remains on the couch, his headphones on. But his eyes study Nixon as he nods.

  “That’s great. It’s cool that I get to come over for dinner tonight, huh?” Nixon circles the couch and slowly makes his way further into the room. He catches sight of a grinning Arlo in the kitchen, shoots a glance back in my direction for a moment, but he’s fast on his feet, just as advertised, and doesn’t miss a beat. “Is Miss Arlo staying too?”

  He’s asking Max, and grins when Max shakes his head.

  “Oh no.” Nix’s eyes swing to his sort-of little sister, his smile still on his lips. “That’s a shame. I always love sharing a meal with her.”

  “Har-har.” Arlo rolls her eyes as Nixon sets his box on the table and passes around to pull her into a hug.

  Just as she advertised, he hugs her tight, and in response, her eyes meet mine as she makes sex faces she really shouldn’t.

  Schooling her expression after a moment, she scolds, “I heard the sarcasm in your voice, Rosa. I resent that.”

  “No you don’t.” He plops a kiss to her forehead and releases her so fast that she stumbles.

  She really is a little sister to him.

  Despite the sex faces, there’s absolutely zero sexual chemistry floating between the couple. No fleeting looks. No sneaking touches. There’s just a guy who keeps looking at me, and a girl who isn’t at all offended she was dropped like a hot potato.

  “I brought a couple of things,” he says to me. “I hope that’s okay.”

  “Oh. Um…” My eyes shoot to the box on the table. “I mean, si, I guess.”

  “Nothing too crazy,” he promises as he circles back to the table.

  Behind me, Max kneels on the couch and watches in silence.

  “Your radio,” Nix starts, and sets the black device on the table. “I set it up, charged it, and at some point before I leave tonight, I’ll show you how to work it.”

  “Oooh…” Arlo deserts our dinner and comes around to snoop in the box. “What’s the radio for, and how illegal is the fact you gave it to her?”

  “Mind your own business.” Nix covers her face with his palm and pushes her back. Then, taking out a DVD, he spins it around and grins. “The Greatest Showman. I don’t know if you know this about me, but when we do movie night, I like to go all-out. That means stereo sound, and a soundtrack that earns the stereo. Word on the street is Hugh Jackman killed it in this movie, and it’s also appropriate for Max, so…” He smiles and… awaits permission, I suppose.

  I ask, “You haven’t seen it?”

  “No. I was saving it. Like travel.”

  He sets the DVD on the table while I stand in stunned silence, my heart thudding against my chest, and like his words don’t rock him the way they do me, Nixon grabs a bag of popcorn from the box next, and after that, a box of chocolate balls.

  “Like I said,” he chuckles. “We need the whole experience.”

  “Um… okay.”

  “If Max isn’t allowed chocolate so close to bedtime, then that’s cool. We’ll eighty-six these and never speak of them again.”

  “Eighty-six?” My eyes jump to Arlo. “Is that another one of those sayings, like with the tea?”

  She snorts. “He means he’ll toss them away. If Max can’t have them, no one can.”

  “Yeah.” Nixon grins and pulls my gaze back to him. “Your home smells fantastic, by the way. Mexican?”

  “Tacos,” I answer. “Arlo helped.”

  “My favorite,” he smirks. “And I don’t mean Arlo.”

  She scowls. “You are offensive and mean and rude.”

  He snickers and reaches back into the box. “And you’re spending too much time with a thesaurus.”

  Nixon takes out a chunky, square, silver device next, and with it, his eyes change, though I don’t understand the significance of what he has. The thing he holds is about six inches long, four or so wide, with black buttons on top, and a small window in the front.

  Before either Arlo or I can inquire, Nixon’s gaze moves behind me and stop on my son.

  “I brought something for you, Max. It’s actually quite old, but it still works, I swear.”

  Hesitantly, Nixon steps around Arlo and the table, then he passes me with slow steps, quiet movements as he approaches the back of the couch and kneels to rest his elbows on the top of the cushions. “This is old technology, and the truth is, you probably already have something much cooler. But this isn’t about efficiency. Rather, it’s about the nostalgic value, and what joy it might bring you.”

  Nixon reaches forward and takes the cord coming from Max’s headphones. He’s gentle, careful not to tug and jostle Max’s head, as he runs his fingertips along the cord until he reaches the end, then he takes that, and plugs it into a small hole on top of the device he holds.

  “We call this a Walkman, Max. It’s olllllld, and some kids at school might try to pick on you for having it. But this was mine when I was growing up. Back then, we didn’t have the fancy new MP3 players. This will only hold a single tape at a time, which is, like, thirteen songs,” he sniggers. “Not nearly as cool as the thousands that newer music players hold, and you can’t even buy tapes anymore, I don’t think, so you won’t find new music to play in this thing. But it’s very cool, and very special.”

  Reaching into his back pocket, Nixon fishes out a cassette tape and places it on the cushion in front of Max. “The Beach Boys are a national treasure, and their music is relaxing as hell. If you don’t like them, then I have dozens of other tapes at my house you can search through. And if you don’t like any of this at all, then that’s fine. No hard feelings.”

  He releases the player when Max nervously brings his hands up and takes it.

  Smiling, Nix simply remains in his crouch and waits. “It’s all yours if you want it. Free and clear. I’ll never ask for it back, and though I hope you get years of enjoyment out of it, if you lose it or break it, I won’t get mad about it either.”

  Max’s eyes come to mine. Anxiety. Worry. Indecision.

  I’m experiencing my own moment of overload, but I smile for my baby and give a gentle nod. “That was very thoughtful of Mr.—um, Nixon, bello. Generoso. If you want it, Mommy says it’s okay.”

  Licking his lips, Max studies the buttons. The window. And when Nixon taps the cassette tape, his eyes go there.

  “Would you like me to show you how to put it in?” Nixon asks quietly. “It’s very easy.”

  Shyly, Max turns the device over and nods.

  Victorious, Nixon opens the cassette case and slides the tape out. Then, hitting a button on the Walkman, he makes the front open, and a slot appears for the tape.

  “You just slide it in like this,” he murmurs just for Max. “It has to go this way up. And at the end of the songs, you flip it around, and there’ll be more.”

  He closes the flap, turns the whole thing to the side, and fiddles with the volume control. Fin
ally passing it back to Max, he waits and smiles. “Do you want to make it play? I put new batteries in before I came here, so you’ll be set for a long while.”

  Swallowing, Max slides the pads of his fingers over the buttons until stopping on the one he wants. Pushing it down, he grunts when he realizes how much force is needed.

  With a smile, Nixon reaches up to help.

  Even standing on this side of the room, several feet away from my son and the man who is so frigging convincing at winning a woman over, I know the moment the music starts to play, because Max’s eyes widen and flip to me.

  “Do you like it, bello?” I have to hide the emotion in my voice, the crackle and bump as I try to speak. “Does it sound nice?”

  He nods and looks back to Nixon. They stare for a long time while Max listens to the Beach Boys. They stare for so long that tears well in my eyes.

  But Max undoes me completely when he whispers, “Thank you” on a rusty, croaky voice, then spins and drops on the couch with his new treasure.

  Arlo gasps at what Max has just given us. What he’s given Nixon.

  I wipe my hand under my nose.

  And Nixon remains where he is, stunned, stony and silent for a long moment while he processes the last minute of his life.

  Eventually, he turns and meets my eyes with something swimming in his. Something important and special. “Did he just…” He pokes a thumb over his shoulder. “Did he…” He slowly rises to stand, and when he’s upright, jabs his thumbs into his front pockets. “He spoke.”

  “Yeah,” I whisper and cry in one. “He said two words.”

  “To me?” Nixon presses. “He said them to me.”

  “Lawd.” Arlo spins away from the dining table and dashes across the living room to collect her things. “I’m gonna lose my shit if I stay here any longer. That was so effin’ sweet!” she cries. “And I’ve been trying to get him to speak to me for ages. I’m not mad!” she assures quickly as she grabs her bag, a coat, and her car keys. “I’m not mad, but I’m hella jealous.”

  She crosses the rug and stops in front of Max. Lowering down, she plops a kiss on my son’s temple, and pulls away to wipe her eyes. “Frickin’ chicken on a kebab. I’m not cryin’, I’m not mad, and I hope you guys have a really fun evening.” She makes her way to the door on a stride, a dramatic loping of sorts. “I’m so jealous, Nixon Rosa! But I’m really happy too. So now I’m going to Nadia’s, and I’m gonna see how much I can annoy them until my eyes stop leaking.”