Chasing Fire (Gilded Knights Series Book 2)

by Emilia Finn

  “Goodnight, kiddo.”

  “Goodnight, Nixon!” She flips him off—expending her residual jealousy, I suppose—then she strides through the door and toward the next. “I love you all very much. Goodnight.”

  “Night,” I rasp out. “Thank you for helping with dinner.”

  “You’re welcome!” She darts through the front door, only to slam it on a huff that makes Nixon grin.

  “She’s so strange,” he mutters, shaking his head.

  “Yeah,” I admit. “But she’s family too, ya know?”

  “Yep.” Nodding, Nixon starts forward, slowly closing the space between us.

  His hair is wet, I notice, now that I’m taking longer to look. His jaw freshly shaven. And his eyes dance, both with happiness and trepidation, as he stops two feet in front of me. Too far away, and yet, a perfectly respectable distance, considering Max is so near.

  “Was I…” He clears his throat and drops his thumbs into his front pockets. “Did I overstep with the Walkman?”

  I shake my head. “He really likes it.”

  “More importantly,” he counters, “He was able to move through past traumas and say a couple words to me. That was a gift.”

  Tears continue to swim in my eyes. “It really was. That was special.”

  “And a big deal,” he pushes. “It was a really big deal.”

  I glance down at his feet and nod. “I think, perhaps, his memories of the fire are slightly different from mine. I avoid firefighters, because they terrify me, but I’m beginning to think Max sees you as the ultimate protector.” I clear my throat. “Do you understand my meaning?”

  “I do. Many people consider firefighters to be strong and brave. I can see how Max’s feelings may be amplified on that front.”

  “Exactly,” I whisper. “Guess my general dislike for your kind didn’t rub off on him.”

  Chuckling, Nixon takes a half-step forward. “Can I kiss you, Idalia? I’ve been dying to all day. Thinking about you, missing you. And he’s not looking.” He tilts his head back in Max’s direction. “Just a quick one.”

  “Okay.” A snigger escapes my throat when my nerves burst free, but Nixon swoops in before I’m done and swallows it down. His hands spring free of his pockets to take the sides of my face. Then he pulls me up taller, taller until I stand on the tips of my toes, and his lips become my prize for reaching.

  “I missed the hell out of you today.” He pulls back a little and rests his nose against mine. “Longest thirteen hours of my life.”

  “I missed you too,” I breathe. “More than I was willing to accept of something so new.”

  Nixon flashes a wide grin and steps back, just as he promised when he asked for one. “Rosa men grow on women like a vine,” he teases. “At first, you think you’re planting a cute little flower, but then we’ve got you, and you hate to admit it, but you love bein’ stuck.”

  “Not at all a romantic notion.” I roll my eyes. “Did you forget I’m anti-relationship with a firefighter?”

  He shrugs and turns to head toward the kitchen. “A vine, Idalia. I’m here now, and we’re both gonna make room for it to grow. Mm, tacos. My favorite.” He stops at the stove and peeks into the pot Arlo was stirring. “Do you need help before it’s time to eat?”

  “Uh… you could grab the bowls from the fridge, I suppose.”

  I follow him into the kitchen and take over at the stove. The beef is ready, and the cold ingredients are already prepped, so while Nixon goes to the fridge in search of the toppings for our meal, I grab a serving bowl and begin pouring the steaming beef in.

  “What’d you do today?” He sets diced tomatoes on the table and glances back to meet my eyes. “Anything exciting?”

  “Niente. We hung out here, played card games, watched a lot of cartoons, and while Arlo was giving us a ‘fun,’” I do the air quotes around the word, “painting lesson, since she likes to do that, I lay sideways on the couch and slept the sleep where my eyes remained open but my body shut down.”

  Laughing, Nixon sets the next bowl on the table. Then the next. “Sounds to me like you haven’t figured out how to trick your body into thinking you’re rested yet.”

  I scowl and search through the kitchen drawers for a serving spoon. “Is that something I should try to achieve?”

  “Sure. Guys like me develop unhealthy sleep schedules… but after a while, we figure out how to pretend everything is fine.”

  “The important word here is unhealthy. And no thanks. What’d you do today?”

  “Grabbed breakfast with Abby and Spence, lunch with Corey and Troy, and just before coming here, I beat Beckett up because he thought it was cute to come over and tell me how hot he thought you were.”

  My heart gives a fast tumble as our eyes meet. “Beckett thinks I’m hot?”

  Nixon’s eyes widen, and slowly, as he places the prepped ingredients exactly right, he swallows. “No. But definitely don’t ask him about it.”

  I laugh. “Or what?”

  “Or he’ll serenade you with his bullshit,” Nix argues, but with a smile. “He’ll give you the growing vine line too, but he’ll do it while humping your leg. The next thing you know, he’ll have tricked you into a Vegas wedding before you’ve had a minute to think, and when you guys get home, he’ll just look at me and say Oops.”

  “You’re silly. He can’t possibly be that b—”

  “You’ve met him already! How do you not remember?”

  Hearing Nix’s shout, but likely not understanding the nuances between play-shouting and real arguing, Max jumps to his knees on the couch and rests his elbows on the top. Then his eyes narrow to dangerous slits.

  Following my gaze, Nixon turns and grits his teeth at Max’s expression. “Sorry, Mazzi. We were just playin’. I’m not really mad.” He glances back to me. “Save me.”

  I scoff as I pick up the platter of beef and bring it around to the table. “You made your bed. Now sleep in it, Rosa. Max, bello? Can you put the music away and come to the table?”

  Max is an interesting mix between defiant and wanting to do everything I ask him to do. I think, perhaps, the rule-following is a trauma response, and maybe a perk of the bond he and I forged following his father’s death, but beneath that is defiance, just waiting to break free.

  I suspect Max’s true self is preparing to send people insane: bend some laws, and if Nixon—or any man—makes a wrong move, break a few bones to make a point.

  My son is still young, still growing into who he is, but I see the hints. I see now the eyes that follow me, that follow Nixon.

  Doing as I asked, but with a modification, Max brings his new Walkman to the table and plops down in his chair with a huff.

  I hurry back to the kitchen to fetch plates and silverware, then setting them out, I try with all my might not to overthink how domesticated and strange this feels.

  It’s me and Max… and a man. It’s three of us… eating dinner at one table.

  When Nixon passes me with water glasses that he took the initiative to find, since I’m a sucky hostess, and places them on the table with a pleased smirk, I startle and glance away from Max’s inquisitive eyes that come up in search of mine.

  “This doesn’t have to be weird.” I say it out loud, though it probably should be something for inside my brain only. I meet Max’s gaze, then Nixon’s; he’s smiling. “It doesn’t have to be weird.”

  “It really doesn’t. In fact, it could be completely not weird, if only you’d relax your shoulders and breathe a little.”

  “It’s just that…”

  “I know.”

  “And this is…”

  He nods. “I know.”

  “And you are…”

  “Yup.”

  “And Greatest Showman?”

  “Zac Efron,” he grins.

  “Dio. Let’s just eat.”

  “Mangiare.” Nixon preens, impressed with himself. “I just spoke Italian.”

  “If you say so.” I press a
hand to my belly before dropping down in my seat opposite Max.

  In most typical dating situations, I’m certain the woman is never first to grab a plate and start loading up. But I’m a mom, and this isn’t typical, so I begin compiling a meal for Max while both males watch on.

  The Beach Boys continue playing in Max’s ears, the tinny chorus making it easy for even the adults to hear; nevertheless, Max keeps a close eye on what’s happening in the space around him, and when Nixon reaches out for a taco shell, Max’s eyes whip to the movement and stop Nix mid-air.

  “Er…”

  “You can eat.” I speak to Nixon, but my eyes go to Max. “Be kind, bello.”

  “Ever wonder if he’d be this protective, if not for what happened in your past?” Nixon asks.

  At least a part of me was just thinking that, so I laugh.

  “Yep. I think now that the floodgates have cracked open, first with Mom, and again with thank you, more might come in time. I spoke to his speech therapist about it after he said ‘Mom,’ and she agrees. It’s begun. His regular therapist continues to tell me that children are resilient. He was so young when everything happened, and soon, as he grows, it’ll become a distant memory, so he’ll probably lead a completely normal life.”

  “Though I’ll bet he stays pretty quiet,” Nix adds. “I don’t mean he won’t speak, but I’d lay a Benjamin down that even as a grown man, he’ll be an observer and speak only when he has something important to say.”

  “I think you might be right,” I admit. “He won’t be like Arlo, for example.”

  “Jesus, she never shuts up,” he laughs. “How does she still have words left? How does she have air in her lungs when she never allows herself time to stop talking?”

  “She’s the eighth wonder of the world, I’m certain.”

  Filling his plate—and not being particularly strategic with how he assembles his meal—Nixon smiles while he works. But he doesn’t start eating until I finish serving Max, and not until I grab my plate and start making my own. He doesn’t so much as lick his fingers until I pick up my food and take an unladylike bite.

  The moment I swallow, it’s like he’s been released and given permission to start.

  “What’ve you got going on tomorrow?” Nixon speaks with his mouth full, but somehow does it without showing his food or spitting it back onto his plate. “Busy?”

  “Always busy,” I agree. “I have some guys coming in tomorrow to give me a quote on putting electricity down in the gym.”

  His brow jumps. “We only discussed that yesterday.”

  I shrug. “It’s one of my many skills; to lie sideways on the couch, shut everything down, but still organize an electrician to come on site.” I toss a chunk of tomato into my mouth and grin. “I also have to speak to my Mr. Lockwood.”

  “Not working out?”

  “I’m not sure.” I let my eyes wander to Max as he quietly picks at his food. “His resume says one thing, but I swear, every time I speak to him now, I want to hit him with a frying pan.”

  Nixon’s eyes dance with humor. “Fair call. I’ve seen the guy around. He looks like maybe he’s been hit a few times already.”

  I burst out laughing and have to set my food back on my plate. “That was unkind.” I look to Max and reinforce, “We don’t make comments on people’s physical appearances, unless it’s something kind and uplifting, right?”

  Despite the music in Max’s ears, he still nods his agreement.

  Nixon snorts at my logic. “So it’s okay to say you want to belt the dude, but you can’t talk about his ugly face or his weird walk?”

  “Esattamente. We want to raise a little boy who sees personalities and souls and brains. Not condition him to see physical appearance, all so a woman can sway on in with her beguiling eyes and pouty lips.”

  “Oh!” Nixon’s eyes grow wider. “I see how it is. You’re allowed to snag me with the eyes and lips and seductress ways, but no other chick can come along and do the same to your baby? Is that how this is?”

  “Esattamente,” I grumble. “Now eat your damn food.”

  “Well hell, welcome to the party, Mama Bear. I was wondering when you’d turn up. I love how there’s one set of rules for you, and a complete other set for the conniving women of the world who may have your son in their sights.”

  “Don’t make me cut you.” I gently place my hand over my knife and smile. “Want to discuss this in more depth?”

  Deciding against it, Nixon slides his hand beneath mine and steals my knife, then he goes back to eating. “Is Max starting school in the fall this year, or next?”

  “This year.” And that thought makes my heart sad. “It’s too soon.”

  “Not according to the department of education,” Nix counters with a grin. “I bet you’ll find his vocabulary explodes once he’s with his peers. Being home with Mom is fun and all, but being with kids all day will blow his mind.”

  “Well, that’s lovely, but I’d prefer he stay here and never have his mind blown.”

  “Someone’s a little codependent on the other Mazzi,” Nixon singsongs, then he looks to Max, who eats and plays his music. “And it isn’t him.”

  “Did you come here only to annoy me, or…?”

  “No, but it’s an educational experience for me to see how grumpy you get when you haven’t slept,” he teases.

  “Si, and surely you understand the dangers of purposely annoying a tired Italian woman, no?”

  “Sim,” he taunts in his own mother tongue. “Dinner is delicious, by the way.”

  “Mmm.” Argument over, I add, “We have apple pie in the oven too. I probably should have made churros or something, but Max loves apple pie, so…”

  “Works for me. I love apple pie too. Add in ice cream, so we get the hot and the cold at the same time, and I can’t think of a single dessert I prefer more.”

  Max’s gaze comes up to Nixon and stops.

  It takes Nixon a minute to notice, and then a little longer to pause his eating and look back. “Do you like the ice cream with your pie too, Max? Do you like the hot and cold?”

  Max pulls his plump bottom lip between his teeth while he considers his response… or if he’ll give one at all. He lets the silence drag on; a tool he’s discovered in the last year or two that makes most uncomfortable.

  Many try to fill the void with chatter. Others will defer to me to translate his stare into something more acceptable. But Nixon… stares right back.

  “No to the ice cream?” he prods.

  “Yes,” Max whispers. Then he goes back to staring at his plate and eating.

  Nixon looks to me and flashes a smug grin. “That’s three words for me in one night. How many for you, Momma Mazzi?”

  How can this man, this charming, sexy, kind and thoughtful man, also make me want to stab him with my fork at least three times in as many minutes? How is he able to draw me in, and even when he pisses me off and taunts me, somehow still keep me wanting to come back for more?

  How?

  “I was anti-firefighter,” I growl. “I was very insistent upon it.”

  “Like a vine.” Satisfied, Nixon grabs his food and starts eating once more. “You’re gonna give me three words soon too,” he murmurs. “It’s inevitable.”

  Shocked, my eyes whip to his and stop, but all Nixon does is wink and bop along to the Beach Boys coming from Max’s headphones.

  17

  Nixon

  Our harsh new reality

  Fire beats down on me and Axe as, together, we do a walkthrough of a two-story home on the very outskirts of town. The structure is old as balls, hasn’t been maintained in far too long, and at some point today, something lit her up and deemed it was time to bring the decaying place down.

  Black smoke stained our beautiful blue skies, which meant my crew was called out before the fire reduced the whole place to ashes. Now the owner of the place says his good-for-nothing, joint-smokin’, jobless-bum nephew is staying with him, and though th
e old man thought the kid was hanging out somewhere in the trees, he’s now got us worried the kid may be inside.

  Which means we look.

  Idalia and I have enjoyed super casual, super non-commitment-type family dinners for a week straight, and though Max’s stares haven’t been doused, his word count is increasing. I’m not here to say it’s a miracle, nor am I assuming it has anything to do with me. But regardless of the whys of Max’s new vocabulary, I’m absolutely here to bear witness.

  Watching Max find and use a new word is one thing. But watching Idalia watch her son… it’s a fucking magic I’m not yet able to adequately describe. So I don’t try. I simply sit back in silence and let Max find his voice, one single, amazing word at a time.

  “All clear in here, Lew.”

  I hear Axe, both over the radio and with my own ears as he shouts from ten feet away. Black smoke billows thick between us, rendering him invisible but for the reflective PPE he wears or the flashlight he swings around.

  That doesn’t bode well for the good-for-nothing nephew we’re searching for. But we push on, as always.

  “Copy that, Axe. Mark the door, then let’s move upstairs and see what we find.”

  The air I breathe, coming from the tank on my back and into the mask I wear over my mouth and nose, makes the rhythmic whoosh-whoosh-whoosh I’m so conditioned to hear. It helps me slow my heart, pace my breathing, and not allow myself to gas out.

  “Stairs are solid.” I go first—I always do—but I’m careful and take extra-long to study each step. “Railings aren’t great, so don’t lean.”

  “Copy that.”

  “Tanker’s on scene, Lew. Hooking her up now,” Cootes reports over the radio. She’s outside coordinating the fight against the fire, but seeing as we’re too far out of town for a hydrant, and there are no lakes nearby, we require a tanker rather than a standard engine. “We’re ready when you are.”