REDEEMING THE ROSE: GILDED KNIGHTS SERIES BOOK 1

by Finn, Emilia

  “I see where we fall on Cadabby’s list of importance! Flowers over bros. Got it.”

  “Well, she didn’t call my brothers ugly,” Abigail argues. “The opposite, actually. She seems quite taken by the Rosa men.”

  Exasperated and reaching to the middle of the table, I snag the cooling ingredients and start constructing my dinner.

  12

  Mitchell

  Temporary Truce

  Nadia is a bright beacon of rose skin and light hair in a sea of Rosas. She’s bubbly and loud, an attention seeker, and not at all sorry for it. She’s got jokes for days, and wit that shuts the smartass Beckett up, and even pushes Corey into place.

  And she’s so cute about it, not one single man here gets mad at her for it.

  Her sense of humor is dry, cutting, offensive if you allow it to be. Which is what I did, I suppose, for the last week or so. I let myself be offended. I searched for the worst in her, practically pleaded for her to be the villain, but as time passes, and I watch her interact with my family, I realize it’s quite possible she’s not pretending to be anyone except herself.

  No hidden motives.

  No plans to fuck my brothers.

  No plans to hurt anyone.

  Is it possible the truth has been out for me to see this whole time?

  Tacos turns to beer, and beer turns to dessert. When our stomachs get too full to sit with posture, our group moves to the living room, and because Nix has a massive couch, and an even bigger television, we can all cram together and not make it weird. Corey sits on a single recliner off to the side, and Beckett plops down in the middle, pulling Abby down with him, since he so enjoys being the center of attention.

  I sit on the furthest end, and Nixon sits on the opposite. So then there are two spaces open. Between me and Beck, or between Abby and Nix.

  And fuck me to hell and back, but Nadia chooses my side.

  Sliding into the gap and making herself comfortable, she shuffles back once, twice, three times while balancing her drink, until finally, the ends of her hair tickle my arm, and the scent of her perfume renders my beer useless. I can taste nothing, smell nothing, feel nothing except Nadia Fucking Reynolds right up in my space.

  Nix channel surfs for a few minutes, flickering between action movies, and the lifetime stuff. Old movies, versus new. Chick movies that make Abby sit taller with interest, and then war movies that get most of the guys’ approval. He settles on something with Keanu Reeves… or Bruce Willis… or hell, maybe Mel Gibson.

  They all choose movies with explosives and cussing that’ll annoy Abigail, but for this minute, for right now, in the darkness, when Nixon dims the lights—because he doesn’t just do movie night, he does movie night—my senses are all for Nadia. Her delicate shoulder that I’ve tasted. Her floral scented hair that is soft as silk, and perfect for burying a man’s face in. Her chin remains high, proud, but she sat next to me. She fucking chose me! So I sneak looks, and inhale the experience of being so near and not fighting.

  Luckily for me, Beckett is as big as the rest of us, and Abigail is tucked into his other side, which means for as long as everyone’s attention remains on the Bruce/Keanu/Mel movie, none of them notice when I inch my fingers closer to Nadia’s thigh.

  One step closer. Then two. The movement catches Nadia’s attention before my physical touch does, then her eyes whip from mine, to her leg when I touch.

  What? her eyes scream. What the fuck do you want?

  Her jade green eyes shimmer where the TV reflects back in the dark, and because of the reflection, because of shadowing, I also catch a glimpse of her throat tightening and releasing. Swallowing. Stopping.

  She looks down once again at my hand, inches her fingers beneath mine in a type of caress, and just when I think I can relax, she flicks me off with a silent scoff, and goes back to watching the TV.

  Okay. So she’s mad.

  Leaning in closer so my lips almost touch the shell of her ear, I grin when she startles, then whisper, husky and low because I can’t have the others notice us. “I said I was sorry.”

  “Mmhm,” she rumbles back, so I feel the vibration more than I hear the sound. “That’s nice. Shh.” She nods toward the movie she’s not even watching.

  “I was wrong,” I whisper again. “I don’t think you’re a mooch, nor a whore. I don’t think you’re—”

  “Shh,” Abigail chides. “No talking during movies.”

  Frustrated and sitting back, I watch the television for a moment, and ponder my next move. I could get up and move to the kitchen, but the likelihood of her following is low, and even if she did, everyone would notice. And being noticed is the last thing we want. I could try whispering again, but she’s not receptive, and what I want to say requires more than single syllables and hushed tones.

  If I was closer to a pen and paper, we could go old-school—Lorraine Jenner style—and pass notes. But I have no paper, and I don’t think she’s interested in writing to me anyway.

  Glancing to my left, I catch a glimpse of Corey with one eye on his phone while he types, and the other on the movie. Who he’s writing to, I have no clue. But he provides inspiration, so leaning in my seat and fishing the phone from my pocket, I open the text app and pray that when I text the number I stole days ago, her phone isn’t on loud and ends up pulling everyone’s attention.

  I don’t know if Nadia has her phone on her. I don’t know if it’s near. I don’t know if she’s going to punch me in the face for being a dick every time I see her, but I do know that I have to tell her my truths.

  And then, she gets to decide what she does with them.

  Reynolds. Make a big deal out of this text, or announce it at movie time and show my brothers, and I’m gonna be pissed.

  It’s odd, typing this up and knowing the recipient is right here, right beside me.

  I made assumptions about you because I’m a grumpy fuck. It’s okay. I can admit it. I got my feelings hurt because you had dudes calling you while it was still dark. And since we already know I think the worst of people, those texts only “proved” what I assumed to be true.

  I can acknowledge when I’m wrong. And that’s what I’m doing now.

  Not only aren’t those people calling you for a fuck, but with them comes trouble. I’m sorry for it.

  I’m not asking for anything from you. I just wanted to put it out there that I was wrong, and that I apologize. And I don’t know if you caught that thing from my brother, but this shit is rare, so soak it up and wrap it around you like a cloak.

  Talk to me, or don’t. I’m not gonna bitch at you.

  But I’m sorry, I’ve said so, and now, I wanna be friends.

  Just half a heartbeat before I hit send, Nadia reaches out and snatches my phone from my hand.

  My pulse skitters, and my eyes obsess over her every move; the way her hand caresses my phone, and the way her nails—sparkly and purple—tap at my screen. The way her knee bounces a little as she reads, and the way her lips curl into a smirk as she, no doubt, gets to the bit about me being sorry.

  Hitting the backspace and deleting everything I just wrote, she begins typing her reply while everyone else in the room remains absorbed in the action movie.

  Except Corey; he’s absorbed in his phone, and looks up only when a gun explodes on the television.

  Nadia’s smirk grows the longer she taps at my phone. The electricity building between us is palpable. And then she tosses the device back into my lap and continues to pretend to watch a movie.

  You have a brother complex because of Lorraine Whatsherface. She was kissing Beckett, and now you think your brothers are gonna steal any chick you show interest in. I would say that that’s not an issue—the loyalty in this family is over-the-top obsessive—but Beckett seems special, and like maybe he doesn’t know how not to flirt, so what do I know? I’m already half in love with him.

  It’s okay to be insecure, Mitchell. It’s not okay to be an asshole and push your insecurities onto other peo
ple.

  Even if my texters weren’t my cousins, and were guys looking for a fuck, that doesn’t mean you get to be a jerk to me about it. And you sure as shit don’t get to slut-shame me for it.

  Shall we ask Beckett for the number of women he’s pegged up against a wall? What about you? Know your number? Can we slut-shame you, too, or is that only something we do to women?

  I accept your apology. I even accept your friendship. I do not accept your propensity to talk during a movie.

  Warmest Regards,

  The Mooch Slut who has no interest in being made to feel bad for existing.

  Ouch.

  Did I actually call her a slut? Or did I say mooch, and then get mad about the number of callers she had?

  Backspacing on her words, I start typing again.

  I’m sorry. For every shitty thing I’ve said since meeting you. I want to say I’ve been stressed lately, busy, not enough sleep. I could give you a million excuses. But I’d much rather just be a man, accept responsibility for who I am, and then do better.

  I don’t want you to feel bad for existing. I was a dick, yes, but I never meant to hurt your soul like that. Please accept my apology and know it’s a blanket sorry for every single thing I said that hurt you since the moment we met.

  If you wanna start again, I might be heading to the kitchen in 5. Two strangers, passing in the street. We can both be looking for a drink. It would be my pleasure - and as family of the host, my duty - to serve you.

  If you pass me by, introduce yourself to me, and I swear, neither “mooch” nor “slut” will ever pass my lips. Except, of course, unless we’re discussing Lorraine from high school. In which case, I’m still mad about that.

  If you don’t come looking for a drink, that’s okay too. I’ll respect your choice, and still want to be your friend.

  The ball is in your court.

  Fighting the urge to hit send, since that’s not what we’re doing, I place the phone on her thigh, then I push up to stand while Bruce Willis… or maybe it’s Steven Seagal… blows some shit up.

  Nadia’s eyes, bright and playful in the semi-darkness, come to mine. Hers are curious, since she’s yet to read the text.

  I let her see my small grin, the tiniest upturn of my lips, then I turn away as she grabs my phone and begins reading.

  Passing Corey, I nod in the kind of greeting that says hey, but don’t talk to me, then I head to the kitchen and plop down on the stool by the island counter. There’s still food in here; a mostly empty bowl of tomatoes. So I pick at those. A head of lettuce. Grated cheese. An empty beer bottle, and beside that, an unopened one that someone got out but decided against.

  Their loss is my gain, so I snag the glass bottle and pop the cap off, then tossing the metal lid across the kitchen, I smile when footsteps softly sound on the kitchen tile.

  She followed. She wants to be friends.

  “So I—” I spin on my stool while I speak, only to stop when it’s Corey’s face I see, and not Nadia’s soft tan, her bright eyes, her hair that proves useful in bed when we both get a hunger for pulling.

  “You’re a slut.” Corey moves forward, snatches my beer, and tips it back for a long drink. Bringing it down again with an “ah”, he wipes his forearm across his lips and presents me with a goofy grin. “Abby is gonna kill you, you know that, right?”

  I spin back to face the counter. “Don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “Uh huh. So the note-passing, the leg-touching, the eyes that scream ‘fuck me now and let me hurt you’…? I didn’t see any of that?”

  I pick at the tomatoes and try my damnedest not to look into his eyes. “I think if you saw all that, you have to get yourself a damn hobby. I’m just trying to sit here and enjoy a meal.”

  “So, if I pull up a stool beside you…?” He does just that, plops his ass down beside me, and settles in. “And I stay here all night long, you’re not gonna get mad that I’m taking someone else’s seat?”

  Fuck yes. “Nope. You’re my big brother. I love you.”

  He scoffs. “Uh huh. She’s cute, huh? She’s got sass, though.” He pauses for a moment, then adds, “Seems more my type than yours.”

  “Touch her and you die.”

  Chuckling beside me, so his chest bounces, he only shakes his head. “Got it. Wanna talk about it?”

  “Nope. But wouldn’t mind if you fucked off and opened up that seat just in case someone else wanted to sit there.”

  “You’re mean,” he snickers. “Since when did Bitchy Mitchy become mean to his brothers, huh?”

  “Probably around the time you assholes started calling me Bitchy Mitchy. That shit’s annoying.”

  “Well, if the shoe fits,” he smirks. “You’re a worrier, Mitch. A caretaker. You’re up in everyone’s business just as much as Abby is, but you’re way less subtle about it. You’re always thinking fifty steps ahead, because god forbid something unexpected happens and your schedule is thrown out.”

  “You done?”

  “You’re a mom,” he teases. “Worrywart. Bitchy. And now you’ve found yourself something beautiful with spine, and you’re hiding it from your baby sister.”

  “Nothing to hide,” I argue. “And even if there was, it would seem I’m not very good at it. Therefore, you’re wrong.”

  Smirking, he brings the beer back up to his lips and swallows the golden liquid down, right beside his laughter. “Okay. Need me to go, so she can sit down and pretend not to be freaking about Abby’s baseball bat?”

  I turn to him with furrowed brows.

  “I knew she was already digging a Rosa before you walked in tonight, Mitch. Wasn’t me, wasn’t Beck, since we’d only just met. Could’ve been Nix, but they sat so far apart at the table… which, in a way could be construed as guilt, but still, I wasn’t feeling it. That girl was quivering at the baseball bat stories, which means she’s already guilty of her crimes. This left you and Troy. It’s not impossible that it was Troy—even with him out of the country, it isn’t impossible he found himself a girl who found us. But no, that didn’t feel right. Abby doesn’t really go after Troy’s women. Just you younger guys.”

  “Lucky you,” I grumble.

  He snorts. “My powers of deduction led me to laying bets on Nadia’s special friend being you. What, with the note-passing and such. Now you’re here, and she’s waiting by the door.”

  “What?” I spin so fast that my elbow slams against the countertop, and my stool almost topples. But then I stop, and there she is, standing in the doorway in sexy jeans that make my mouth water. A cute top with shelf in it that makes all of my brothers look, if only for a moment. Her long hair hangs loose, and her lips sit plump and pretty in a half smile.

  “Nadia?”

  “That thing about Abigail not hurting Troy’s friends,” she asks. “Was that true?”

  “You decide you wanna bed Troy after Mitch,” Corey smirks, “and the rules change. Abby will swap the baseball bat for an axe.”

  “Ugh.” Her forehead wrinkles, and her knuckles turn white when she balls her fist and mashes it against her other hand. “Why couldn’t I have met the older Rosas first?”

  “Because it wouldn’t be fair,” Corey answers while Nadia makes her way into the room, but comes around to the other side of the island counter. “Troy and I already ruined most of the girls in our school. We have to save one or two for the baby Rosas.”

  I roll my eyes, and watch Nadia as she leans on her elbows, picks a tomato from the bowl I’ve been snacking from, then tosses it into her mouth. “He’s stupid. Don’t listen to him,” I tell her.

  “So, you call him Bitchy Mitchy, huh? I’m shocked.”

  Corey snorts. “I think perhaps you’re lying. But he’s cool too. He can be super chill when Crash Bandicoot is on the PlayStation. He likes long drives, and walks on the beach.”

  “Woof woof.”

  Corey’s smile grows by a mile. “Stamina for days.”

  “Corey,” I grumble.
“Quit it.”

  “He works a job most others burn out in within five years, they pay him shit-all for it, and every time the boss screws up, he tosses his front line under the bus without a second thought.”

  Nadia’s gaze comes to mine. In silence, sweet contemplation, she tilts her head and studies me.

  “He likes red meat and dark green salads. He wears holey clothes more often than not, because he’s too fuckin’ lazy to go shopping. He’s a workaholic, and though he shouldn’t be, since management doesn’t care or appreciate, he does it anyway, because despite his grumpy-fuck attitude, he cares. He cares too much. And the fact he cares, while management mismanages, means he’s a grumpy fuck.”

  “It’s a cycle,” Nadia finishes. “And then he passes that grumpiness on to others, because he can’t absorb an iota more.”

  “She’s got you pegged, Mitch.” Tapping his knuckles to the countertop, Corey pushes up to stand and brings his eyes to Nadia. “I enjoyed dinner with the new girl. You have backbone, Reynolds. And I like the shit outta that. When you tell Abby you’re crushing on your boss’ brother, be sure to stand seven feet away, or tell her you’re pregnant. She won’t swing if you say that.”

  “Corey! Fuck.” I shove him away, too noisy, too attention-grabbing, and grit my teeth when the movie in the living room turns silent for a moment.

  “Go the fuck away,” I grit on a quiet murmur.

  “I’ll go hang with my baby sister for a bit, keep her attention on me.” He stops at the doorway, does a half salute, and chuckles when Nadia mirrors him back. “Until next time.”

  “He’s cute.” The moment Corey is out of the room, Nadia hurts me. “How are your brothers single, Mitchell? You’ve got Beckett the flirt, Corey the badass, Troy the elusive, Nixon the sweet as pie fireman…”

  I wait for her to finish.

  Only to growl when she doesn’t. “And me?”

  “We know why you’re single. You’re too grumpy for your own good. Many women would call that intimidating. Unapproachable.”

  “But not you?”