by Finn, Emilia
“Best?”
“Yeah. Guess he ain’t done tossing us under the bus for political gain.”
I send my eyes skyward. “For fuck’s sake.”
11
Nadia
Bitterness Never Tasted So Good
“Wait!” Laughter, wine, silliness; ingredients for a needed night of mental reprieve. It doesn’t hurt that my companions tonight consist of three sexy guys and my sweet boss, who somehow controls them all. “She chased away your prom date?” I ask Beckett Rosa. He’s older than Mitchell and Nixon, but younger than Corey and Troy. “Abby?” I point to the woman who sits across from me. “This Abby?”
“With a baseball bat,” Beckett says. “I was what some might suggest a little friendly in high sc–”
“Flirt,” Abby says quickly. “You were an insatiable flirt. Still are.”
He smirks for her, then brings his attention back to me. A flirt is exactly what he is, and since no one knows what Mitchell and I did, Beckett considers me fair game. “So I flirted,” he concedes with a shrug. “It’s called charisma, Cadabby. I refuse to be sorry for that.”
She scoffs, but smiles behind the lip of her wineglass. “Your lot in life, Beckett. Just so unfair.”
He playfully wrinkles his nose. “So, our sweet Abigail, she’s not actually sweet at all. And if anyone ever tells you that we are protective of her, then they’re omitting the bit about how she rules over us all. She went after my date with a damn bat, Nadia. I’m not lying.”
“But why?” I ask. “Abby, you would have been, what? Fifteen years old?”
“Fourteen,” Abby snickers. “Not so long before I got sick, actually. But that’s beside the point.”
“Sounds to me like someone was a little tired,” Nixon teases from his place at the top of the table.
This is his home, his dining table we’ve all crowded around. Beckett sits across from me and slings an arm over his sister’s shoulder. And on the opposite end, Corey watches us all. He’s darker, quieter, somewhat scarier than his brothers. But he’s not trying to be intimidating. Rather, he’s observing a happy family, and possibly gauging the mooch slut to make sure she’s not going to rip anyone off. Just like Mitchell, but much more pleasant about it.
“A sleepy Abby is an unkind Abby,” Nixon finishes.
“Oh shut up!” She tosses her scrunched napkin. “That woman only wanted to get Beck in trouble, so I saved her time and effort, and showed her the door before she could.”
“You make a habit of attacking your brothers’ girlfriends?” I ask. Tragically, there’s genuine reason for me to care. I don’t want a baseball bat to the side of the head if Mitchell ever decides to snitch. And if he does, then I need to know how soon I should duck. “Abigail Rosa,” I mock admonish. “I thought you were sweet?”
“Hush.” She rolls her eyes. “Just because I was small doesn’t mean I was without a brain. I heard those girls talking about the ‘Rosa army’.” She rolls her eyes again. Where a moment ago, it was joking and silly, this time, it’s exasperation from a girl tired of being the sixth wheel on the side of a band of brothers. “They were planning to do nasty things to my brothers—”
“And you stopped them?!” Nixon exclaims. “Dammit, Abigail. Men dream of that sort of thing.”
Abby points a dangerous finger and growls, “I’m going to hurt you. Zip it.”
“But what about nowadays?” I ask. “Is Abigail still attacking people, or has she zenned out?”
“You looking for a date?” Beckett… well… flirts. “Because I could be convinced to hide the baseball bats.”
“Smooth,” Corey chuckles low on his breath. “Always so smooth, Beck.”
“Not looking for a date,” I laugh. “I barely have time to sleep right now.”
“Happy coincidence,” Beckett pushes. “Because when I date, we don’t sleep.”
“Beckett!” Abigail slaps her brother’s broad chest. “You stop that right now. Nadia’s not looking for companionship with any of my brothers. It’s practically in her employment contract.”
“Well, that’s lame,” he chuckles. “Signed a dud contract, Nards. Abby looks sweet and all, which makes folks underestimate her. But she hoodwinked you with that contract, knowing she had five brothers looking for love.”
“Love?” I challenge. “You looking for a wife, Beckett? Or a good time?”
“Well, I’m a fan of the trying before buying approach. It would be a filthy shame to marry up, only to realize she’s more boring than watching paint dry.”
“You are despicable,” Abby grumbles. Then she looks to me. “Please forgive my brother’s terrible manners, Nadia. He’s not normally this horrible, but he’s showing off for our guest.”
Beckett winks for me. Flirty, silly, discreet. He’s playing. But also… he’s not.
She turns to him and growls, “I brought her here for a nice meal. Not for solicitation.”
“Speaking of our meal.” Nixon sets his half-empty glass of beer on the table and slowly pushes his chair back. “I’ll bring it out. I was trying to wait for Mitch, but I guess he’s not coming.”
I look to the empty seat to my right and try to keep my face schooled and smooth. It shouldn’t bother me that he’d rather miss out on family dinner than spend time with me.
Glancing away from the chair and up to Nixon when he turns to head toward the kitchen, I set my napkin down and push to stand. “Need a hand?”
“Sure.” He slows and glances over his shoulder with a grin.
Damn these men for being so handsome. For being so charming and kind. And why the hell did Mitchell have to be the one I fell into bed with, when I have so many much less grumpy choices?
“Come on.” He waits for me at the doorway—the gentleman, the flirt—and leads me into the next room when I catch up.
The kitchen is large and modern, with a massive stove… the kind you might find in a fancy restaurant. A stone island bench. One of those huge, double-door fridges built into the cabinetry, so it looks like another portion of kitchen.
“Wow, you either really enjoy cooking, or you have a chef and enjoy the food that leaves this kitchen.”
Smiling, Nix snatches up a hand towel and tosses it over his shoulder out of what looks like ingrained habit. Then, he snags a large wooden spoon and goes to work mixing ground beef he’s already cooked.
“It smells divine in here,” I murmur.
“I learned fast after joining the fire department that I needed to know how to cook. I needed to cook well, or the guys would kill me on shift. And I needed to cook fast, because without fail, the second we settle in to cook or eat, some asshole starts a fire and drags us out into the cold.”
“Every time?”
He laughs. “I could bet my house on it and know I won’t lose. After a while, I learned how to prepare things that keep.”
“Like taco mix?”
“This is my mom’s recipe,” he chuckles. “The day I bought a slow cooker for the station, I thought I’d feel like a…” He leans a little toward the door we came through—searching for Abby, I think—and confirms my thoughts when he comes back with a grin and finishes, “pussy. I thought I’d feel like a total punk.”
“You didn’t?”
“Nope! I broke that baby out of the box and tossed lamb shanks in. By dinnertime, we were eating like kings. The next day, I bought an air fryer, and I’m just saying, we don’t need women anymore.”
A single, dangerous brow shoots halfway up my forehead. “Hm?”
“Air fryer and slow cooker; all the woman a man will ever need in a kitchen.”
“You like getting hurt, huh?” I pick up a glinting silver knife, and spin it on the countertop. “Testing me?”
He barks out a loud laugh. “Kidding. I still like boobs and stuff. Here, come taste this.” He offers the wooden spoon with a little of the beef sitting on the end.
Setting my knife down, and coming around the counter, I stop beside him so his wood
sy scent fills my lungs and does things to my toes. Then I accept the beef, and make all sorts of sex noises when flavor explodes on my tongue.
“Good, right?”
“So good.” I wipe a finger over my lips to catch anything that might have transferred from the spoon, then I step back and rest my hip against the counter. “I can taste the paprika.”
“Uh huh. What else?”
“Chili?” I wish for more, but don’t dare ask to be spoon-fed again. “The exact right amount.”
“Yup. Oregano, too. And I have this secret way of cooking.”
“A secret?”
“Rosa family secret, passed down from my Irish great-grandmother.”
“Irish?” I burst out laughing. “It’s taco mix!”
Chuckling, he sets a glass lid on the pan of beef, then makes his way to the fridge. “It’s rude of you to imply old Irish biddies can’t enjoy great food.”
He’s baiting me. Teasing. And I’m way too mature to fall for it. So instead, I accept the bottle of wine he takes from the fridge, then the bowls of extras; lettuce, diced tomatoes, beans, and rice that sits in a covered container, sweating from being placed in the fridge while still hot. I juggle the bowls in my arms and accept a tureen of sauce, but turning to set it all on the counter, my eyes stop on a dark form at the door.
My breath explodes on a gasp, and the sauce hits the counter with a clang when Mitchell’s eyes dig into mine, so deep, so penetrating that I feel the burn.
He leans against the doorframe, with his arms folded, his lips flattened with displeasure, and his jaw flexing with whatever it is he wants to say, but refuses to voice. He’s wearing jeans and a shirt, boots the same as he wears at work.
The last words we spoke to each other were… not pleasant. And now I’ve been caught all alone with his brother in the kitchen.
“You guys having fun?” he rumbles. “Chitchat and recipe exchanges are a thing in this house now?”
“Mitch, grab this.” Unbothered by—or more likely, used to—his brother’s crankiness, Nixon merely wraps the handle of the pan with his hand towel, then passes it across the counter. “We’re eating late because of you, cabrão. I’m starving.”
“I was busy.”
“You’re an hour late. No one is that busy. You were just being rude.”
Nixon grabs a couple of the bowls from my arms, the sauce, then he leads the way out of the kitchen so that, for a single moment, Mitchell and I are all alone.
His jaw clenches, and his eyes sparkle with something akin to rage. “Nadia Reynolds.”
Swallowing, a large part of me wants to shrivel under his glare, but there’s another part, the proud part, that refuses. So I stand taller, straighten my spine, and lift my chin in the air. “Mitchell. I was starting to think you wouldn’t come.”
He lifts a single brow, though it seems more inquisitive than cutting. “You knew I would be here?”
“Abigail said it was a family night and all but Troy would attend.” I push past him and move in the direction of the dining room. “My powers of deduction went ahead and assumed.”
He follows, close enough that I can smell his aftershave, but not so close that I worry he’s going to knock me out with a fire hydrant. “Isn’t there something about assumptions?” he asks. “Makes a person look like an ass.”
My lips twitch as his fingertips brush the small of my back. He pretends he’s only helping me with my things. He grabs a bowl, and smirks as he turns away and goes, but I don’t let him know of my budding grin. I don’t reward him with that smile, no matter how small it is.
He’s worse than a bipolar off their meds; hot and cold, up, then down. He hates me, then he wants to fuck me. He’s mad at me, now he’s grinning.
I want to stand my ground and shout at him about my allergies to abusive relationships, but then I emerge into Nixon’s dining room, and Abigail’s eyes come to mine.
Not only has she already laid down the law about dating her brothers, but there’s also the baseball thing I don’t plan to try out. So I zip my lips and place my things in the center of the table. I pass closer to Beckett rather than Mitchell. I organize the bowls, set them out nice and neatly, and while I do that, Mitchell takes his seat in the only remaining space that has a plate and silverware that hasn’t been disturbed.
He settles in and lounges back so his legs splay wide and his chest takes up entirely too much space, and I sigh and stop procrastinating when Beckett watches me place a bowl in the same spot for the third time in a row. They’ll all be moved moments from now, emptied, consumed, so my procrastination is useless… and worse, noticeable.
I lift my hands away, smile for Beckett—everything is normal and fine!—then I come around the table and ignore the way Mitchell watches me when he realizes exactly where I’ll be sitting.
“Nadia.” Beckett flashes a wide smile as I settle in. “Have you met our brother Mitchell? He’s second youngest, slowest at track, and says resuscitation is work, but secretly, I think he enjoys it.”
“They’ve met,” Abby says in the same breath I say, “We’ve met.”
Mitchell grins. “Nadia and I have met a couple times at the shop. It’s been a little rocky.”
“Well, yeah.” I pick up my glass of wine and bring it to my lips. “He thinks I’m a mooch whore.”
“Nadia! Wait, what? Mitchell!”
“He’s a tad overprotective,” Beckett nods. “He’s got the negative mindset, where he assumes everyone’s here to tear a strip off.”
“And you?” I ask. “Always positive?”
“Always. I have enough chicken to go ‘round.”
“Don’t let him charm his way into being the favorite,” Mitchell inserts. He reaches forward, and takes the first taco shell, which gets everyone started. “Beck likes the resuscitation part of his job too. But his job being what it is, that makes it a hell of a lot weirder than when I do it.”
Beckett snickers. “What can I say? I love my job.”
“Please god,” I groan. “Please tell me you don’t work in a mortuary.”
Taco shell in one hand, and heaped spoon of beans in the other, he spills and makes a mess as he laughs. “You’re sick! And no, I do not work in a fuckin’ mortuary.”
“Beckett!” Abby snaps. “Cussing at the table.”
Rueful—well, pretending to be, anyway—he looks to me and snickers. “Not a mortuary. So, if you and Mitchy are already pals, that means you’ve met everyone except Troy.”
“I feel as though you misinterpreted the bit about him calling me a whore. In my world, pals that does not make.”
“Mitchell Rosa!” Abigail admonishes. “You better not have.”
“I know I said some shady things,” he admits, and, unlike his brother, sounds genuinely apologetic. “I’ve been an ass, and I’m sorry for that.”
“You are?” My gaze whips to his, even against my wishes. “You’re sorry?”
“You’re sorry?” Corey asks with wide eyes. “That’s… unusual.”
“Shut up.” He shoves his older brother back with a hand in his face, then Mitchell looks back into my eyes and gives a small nod. “I said some shit, and that was mean of me. I assume the worst of everyone who isn’t one of us, and then we can toss some work stress on top of that. You met the worst of me.”
“Well, not the worst,” Beckett inserts from across the table.
He doesn’t feel what I feel when I stare into Mitchell’s apologetic eyes. He doesn’t see the way Mitchell’s thigh nudges just a little closer to mine under the table.
“Remember that time you were dating Lorraine in ninth grade,” Beckett taunts. “That shit was hilarious.”
“Shut it,” Mitchell grumbles.
“She was kissing him,” Beckett continues. “All the smoochy smooches.”
Finally, Mitchell breaks the current of electricity that burns between our eyes, and instead looks to his brother. “I said quit it.”
“But, turns out she was smooch
y smoochin’ someone else at the same time.”
“What?” Baseball-Bat-Abigail is coming back to play. “Lorraine Jenner? Blonde hair, green eyes, two little buck teeth Lorraine? Who the heck was she kissing?”
With a wide grin and twinkling eyes, Beckett pokes two thumbs back in his own direction.
“You asshole,” Mitchell growls.
“In my defense—” Beckett laughs and swats Abigail’s smacking hand away. “I didn’t know! She lied to us both, right, Mitchy? We were both hoodwinked by the she-devil!”
“I sold flowers to her just yesterday,” Abigail snarls. “I was nice to her because I knew you had been friends in school. What the heck, Mitchell!”
“It was high school, Abigail.” Mitchell’s words are tight, clipped. But his thigh rests against mine. “I wasn’t gonna come snitching to my baby sister because my girlfriend was kissing my brother.”
“Oh shit,” I hiss, then clamp a hand over my lips when Abby’s gaze cuts to me. “Sorry! I meant shoot.” Then I look to Mitchell and scream a million things in my mind.
This is why you’re such a grump!
This is why you have a brother complex!
For fuck’s sake, she has blonde hair, and green eyes… You have a type!
But of course, I say none of that out loud. Because no one here is to know Mitchell and I did the smoochy smoochin’ thing already.
“Sorry,” I say again when everyone continues to stare. “I just, um… realized I recall that woman from yesterday.” I look into Abby’s eyes and tell a lie. “I heard her say your roses were ugly, so when you asked me to wrap her purchase, I purposely didn’t add water.” I shift my chin higher, and risk my job, all for something I didn’t even do. “Her flowers will die sooner, and she’ll have to come back and pay for more. Also, she dyes her hair to cover premature grays. Thought you’d like to know.”
“Oh. Well… good,” Abby simpers. “Kissing two of my brothers and lying to them both is bad enough. But calling my displays ugly?”
She harrumphs, and Beckett cackles.