by Finn, Emilia
When Abby glances up and her mind registers our newest customers, she goes to set her pen down and stand from the stool she’s been parked on for hours, but I place my hand on her forearm and stand first. “I’ve got it.”
My job is to be overly welcoming, loud, excited. But in this case, I tone it down and smile with something a little more respectable, considering the situation. “Hello again.” I come around the desk and meet the couple near the very tulip display I added while tormenting Mitchell. “You like these?”
“They’re so pretty,” the woman says. Her voice is rough and raspy, her hair unwashed and messy.
The man—her husband, I suppose—stands close behind her in a flannel and jeans. Not like he looks homeless, but more like he doesn’t care to shop, nor does he care about fashion.
Tragically, he and Mitchell have that in common.
He watches me with dirty brown eyes rimmed with stress and exhaustion. His hair is dark, but comes with a salt and pepper look, despite the fact I’m not entirely convinced he’s a hell of a lot older than me. He and his wife appear to be mid-thirties at the most—and that appearance comes at the cost of sleepless nights and a deceased child. In happier days, I bet they look a decade younger.
When neither of them can find the words needed to progress our conversation, I reach around the woman and take the bouquet she admires. Swiping the price tag and tucking the vase between my arm and ribs, I slowly make my way back to the counter.
I can’t afford to give away fifty-dollar bouquets every day of the week, so I don’t pay for this lot, but I still keep my words gentle, my actions slow and soothing as I begin wrapping. “Did your daughter like the last selection?” I ask.
Mostly I speak to the woman, since the guy doesn’t look receptive to chitchat. Unfortunately, my words make his eyes burn hot, his hackles raise. How dare you speak of my baby?
I mean no harm, I want only to soothe them during a terrible time, so I don’t react to the venom he tries to burn me with. Instead, I focus on my wrapping, and lean just a little lower to catch the woman’s tear-filled eyes. “The rainbow bunch? Were you happy with them?”
She nods, jerky and heartbroken. “Yes, thank you.”
“Is this your shop?” The guy’s voice is cutting. Mean. “Rosa?”
“No, sir. I’m—”
“I’m Rosa.” Abby sets her pen down and sits taller. She hasn’t written a single thing since the couple walked in, but now she gives up even the pretense. Standing, she offers a hand across the desk and waits. “Abigail Rosa.” She says it with a gentle smile. “This is my shop. I’m… uh… I’m truly, truly sorry about your loss.”
“You know?” the man demands. Abby drops her hand when no one takes it. “You know about Cady?”
“Yes, sir. I was here when your wife last visited. I overheard her and Nadia speaking.”
“And your dinner table?” He spits out with enough anger to make me step closer. “Being a Rosa means you know Mitchell’s part in all this.”
“No, I…” Abby shakes her head. “We don’t make it a point to discuss other people’s misfortunes at our dinner table.”
“Misfortune?! My daughter is dead, Abigail. Not my fucking goldfish.”
“Hey now!” I drop the half-wrapped bouquet and grab Abby, then pull her back, simply so I can be closer to this man. So I can be the first line of defense in case he strikes out. “We’re sorry. We truly are. Children should never pass before their parents, and what happened to you was horrible and unfair. But it is not Abigail’s fault, so I’m going to need you to control yourself.”
“Not Abigail’s fault,” he spits out. “No. But the guy Rosa? What of him?”
“Mitchell is good at what he does,” Abby almost whimpers. I suspect, if we were discussing her own work performance, she’d already be sobbing. But because we’re not, she finds strength in standing up for her family. “Mitchell is the most dedicated person I know. The most caring, the most compassionate. Do you think he wanted a child to die? Do you think he wanted you to feel this way?”
“I think… maybe…” The woman hesitates. “Maybe if he’d just tried a moment longer, it would have worked out. If he just hadn’t given up…”
“He had to save you.” I open my big fat mouth and insert myself where I’m not needed. “He had to choose you, and himself, otherwise there would have been so many more casualties that night.”
The man’s eyes snap to mine. They sparkle with tears and hurt. “I thought these things were not discussed at the dinner table?”
“No, I’m sorry.” Heat floods my cheeks. “I’m not… He didn’t…” Then I shake my head. “I’m just saying, Mitchell is hurting because of your little girl, Mr…” I don’t know his last name, so I settle on “sir. He hurts for her, he wishes it didn’t happen that way. He doesn’t discuss your business, but I knew he was hurting, so I asked, and he told me.”
“He did?” Abby’s suspicious eyes come to mine. “You talked about this?”
“Just one time.” My brain scrambles and works in an effort to catch up.
How much can I say so I don’t get Mitchell in trouble, and at the same time, don’t bring Abby’s suspicious nature around to what he and I do in our spare time?
“I saw he was sad,” I hedge, “so I asked what was wrong.” I meet the mom’s eyes and plead with her to believe me. “He didn’t give up. He did the best he could. And if he could go back and change it, though he’d wish for a different outcome, I know, and he knows, he did all he could. There were no other outcomes available to him.”
“I will have his job.” The man shoots a hand out so fast that I yank Abby back and scrunch my eyes closed. My entire being is prepared and waiting for a punch to the face. So when his hand snatches the bouquet I was working on instead, I let out a startled breath and jump back another step. “I will not stop until he admits he failed to do his duty.”
“Sir,” Abby tries, “please—”
“Marjorie!” He grabs the woman’s arm and pulls her around to leave, so only a second after I thought my face would end up bruised and battered, the grieving man and his Marjorie exit the shop with their bouquet, but a few of the flowers lay on the concrete floor.
“Guess I’m paying for that lot too,” I breathe out. Adrenaline rushes through my veins, my heart races, and my head swims from too much energy.
When the front door is fully closed again, and the bell above is silent, I press a hand to my chest and exhale a heavy breath. “Jesus.”
“Should we call the police?” Abby watches the door in shocked silence.
“I mean…” I swallow. “I don’t know. He stole, but he didn’t actually touch us.”
“If I call the police about this, my brothers are going to make hell rain down on this town,” Abby murmurs. “I’m not kidding. That guy can threaten Mitchell, and the guys leave it be. But if I make the call, something really bad is going to happen.”
“Really bad?” I look around the shop for answers. “Like what?”
“Like Mitchell will go to jail for visiting that guy at his home… with a baseball bat. Or Troy will get in trouble for deserting his post and committing crimes in a country he’s not even supposed to be in.”
“Troy will…” Frowning, I shake my head. “What the hell is up with your brothers, Abby? They’re firemen and first responders. They work with innocents. Are you seriously telling me vigilante justice will be served up to that guy because he said a cuss word in front of the sweet Abigail?”
“I’m just telling you how it is! When your entire life is centered around protecting the baby, then add in military training for some of them, things are known to escalate. Do you think it’s simply bad luck Troy is rarely in the country? Because it’s not, I assure you. I miss him when he’s gone, but I promise, it’s better he’s there, and not here involved in my day-to-day life.”
“Cheese and rice.” I bring a hand up and rub it over my face. “The world has gone crazy.”
> “I don’t think we need to call the police just yet.” She says one thing, but her tone suggests she’s still trying to convince herself. “I think that poor man is deep in mourning. And it’s not like he said he would have our jobs. He’s not mad at us. He’s mad at Mitchell, and that, I think, can only be resolved with time.”
“Do you think he’ll actually have Mitchell fired? Will it go that far?”
“No.” Certain in her words, Abby reaches under the counter to the spite jar, and pulls out enough to cover the flowers that were just taken from us. “There is a shortage of workers in Mitchell’s field. Any EMTs who come through our town to gain experience tend to either use the position as a stepping stone to something better, or they burn out anyway, because they want to save everyone, and can’t handle it when something goes wrong.”
“And Mitchell?” I ask. “Where does he fall on that spectrum?”
“He’s steady,” she replies. “He works his tail off, he gives his all, and he dedicates his life to the cause. He’s not the hero you see in the movies—you know, the one who wants attention and accolades—but he’s not a slacker, either. He’s consistent, he’s good, and he’s staying. Harrison Best would never dare fire him.”
“Okay…” My eyes go to the front door, my memories to the man who is clearly needing to bring someone down before he’s done with this. “So if Mitchell’s boss won’t fold and fire him, what do you think happens to that man?” I point toward the door. “He’s desperate and angry. When Mitchell stays in his job, what do you think is going to happen?”
“Are you saying you want them to fire Mitchell?” Abby arcs up in defense of her brother. Being overly protective of a sibling is a Rosa family trait that runs deep. “You want them to win, even though you know Mitchell did the job? That baby was already gone, Nadia! There was nothing Mitchell could do.”
“No, I don’t think they should fire him. But I definitely worry about how that man will escalate the situation. That grieving father wants someone to burn, Abigail. And right now, that someone is Mitchell.”
“It’ll be fine.” Shaking her head, Abby slaps the cash into the register, closes the drawer, and picks up her notebook with the Bishop wedding details. “He needs time to grieve, and during this time, we won’t judge him. Eventually, he’ll come to understand that what happened to his baby was a tragedy, but not Mitchell’s fault.”
“I hope you’re right.”
Exhaling, I go to work tidying the desk that is now littered with tape, paper, a couple of tulip heads, and amongst it all, a single red rose. My brows draw closer, my mind circling back to Mitchell’s finger stroking the vibrant red only a few hours ago.
Swiping the damaged bloom into the trash, I get back to work and try to put aside the grief that Cady’s father can’t help but spew all over town.
It’s too much, too potent, for him to hold in, so he spreads it all over, hoping to offload a little of the pain. Unfortunately, I doubt he’s achieving anything except dragging more and more people into his darkness.
The first and closest is his wife. She wants to heal, she wants to turn to bright colors and happy thoughts of her child. But until her husband allows it, they’ll both be stuck in this hell they’ve found.
14
Mitchell
Compromise…
I pull up outside Nadia’s ranch-style home around nine o’clock after a long day at work, and kill my engine before the neighbors get it in their heads to snoop. I cut the lights, switch off the interior light as it tries to illuminate my late-night fucking and expose us to the world. Then I sit in my truck while the hot engine clicks and cools, and while I do that, I stare toward Nadia’s front window as TV lights flicker behind the curtains.
“What are you doing, Mitchell?” Exhausted, I run a hand over my eyes and groan. My body is at odds, my head and my heart, my libido, and my desire to sleep for the next thirty fucking hours. “What the hell are you doing, huh?”
What’s up with sneaking around? Why does the mooch make you so angry and so hot in the same breath?
Because I’m messed up, that’s why. Because instead of burning out at work, I keep pushing, pushing, pushing, and to make up for it, I screw around in my downtime in really toxic ways.
My phone bleeps on the passenger seat, and though I intend to stuff it in my pocket and ignore it, I catch Nadia’s name on my screen. Or, well, it used to say Nadia, but for some reason, it now reads ‘the mooch whore whose vagina calls to me.’
Subtle.
Sighing, I accept the call and bring it to my ear. “You posted on my social media, and changed your name in my phone? Should I search a little more thoroughly and find what else you’ve fucked with?”
“That would only spoil the fun,” she snickers. “I see you out front, Mitchell. You coming in, or are you not quite done with the creeping yet?”
“I’m deciding if I should come inside at all. I feel like what we’re doing is straight up weird.”
“Pfft. You don’t know weird till you search my sex toy supply.”
“Huh?”
“Hmm?” Chuckling under her breath, Nadia’s breathy responses arrow straight for my cock. “What’s wrong, handsome? Why the crisis?”
“We’re sneaking.”
“Sneaking is fun. Plus, your sister scares the shit out of me.”
“Sneaking implies we have something to hide.”
“We do!” I hear her moving, then the front door opens, and light spills onto the porch. “I don’t want to get fired for sharing my sex toy box with my boss’ brother. Plus, Abby told me something recently about war crimes and how the Rosas take care of business. You guys are like your very own mafia. I don’t wanna mess with that.”
“You’re strange. And you exaggerate a lot.”
Again, she makes a pfft in the back of her throat. “I don’t believe you. Are you coming in or not?”
“My cock says yes,” I admit on a sigh. “My brain says to run far, far away, because this will explode on us.”
“It’s a possibility,” she murmurs. “Shit could go really bad, really quick. If one of us catches feelings and the other doesn’t. If one of us says something irredeemably mean, and the other can’t move on from it. If your sister fires me for a completely unrelated issue, and I end up moving away, only proving you right all along.”
“So you admit moving away is a possibility.”
“Of course, it would only be fair that I follow Troy wherever his work takes him.”
“Argh!” My heart jumps, like I’ve grabbed the end of a hot poker. “I’m gonna whip you, Nadia!”
Cackling, she sits on the top step of the porch and rests her elbows on her knees. “You seriously make it easy, Mitchell. I don’t even know your brother, but at this point, I feel like he should know about his relationship with me, otherwise shit’s gonna be seriously awkward when he’s waiting at the altar for a woman he hasn’t even met yet.”
Why the fuck does my mind circle to Nadia in a white gown? Backless, with a train that is obnoxiously long, and heels that are too high, but she chooses them anyway, because she prefers aesthetics over practicality. Why the hell does the thought of Nadia getting married make my stomach drop? And why, when there were a million reasons to get out of my truck before, is this the thing that gets me to move?
“Shut up about my brother, and I’ll do that thing with my tongue.” I slam the truck door and move onto the sidewalk. “Never mention him again, sex, weddings, or otherwise, and I’ll continue to make you come on my tongue.”
“Well, hell.” She breathes out and literally lets her legs drop open. She’s wearing sleep shorts and a tank top, both of which are loose enough that if this was daytime, I’d disapprove of her legs being open for the world to see.
But it is dark, and her legs are open for me, so I let the disapproval slide right off my shoulders, and instead move toward her so fast that her neighbors will struggle to know who’s here.
I mean, they’ll know
my truck if they care to look. But that’s a different problem for a different day.
Reaching Nadia just seconds after closing my truck door, I cut our call and shove my phone into my pocket, then I scoop her into my arms and swallow her startled cry when I lift her high and rush through her front door. Frantic movements, hungry hands, I set her on her feet the second we cross the threshold, and kick the door shut, only to pick her up again, but this time, her legs wrap around my hips and her arms, around my neck.
Pressing her against the closed door, I risk removing one hand so I can flip the locks, then I cup her ass with both palms and turn us toward the stairs.
“I remember where,” I murmur against her neck. My teeth nip, then my tongue follows and soothes. “I remember where to go.”
“And we’re just gonna do this?” she rasps. “No formalities?”
That slows me… a little. “You got a problem with that?”
“No.” She throws her head back and opens herself up to my lips and tongue. Her long hair hangs loose so the ends tickle my fingertips. “Goddddd,” she groans. “No problem with that. I was just checking where we’re up to.”
“I decided to follow my dick instead of my head.”
“Smart choice,” she giggles. “That has never, in the history of ever, gotten a man into trouble before.”
“Shush.”
I carry her up the stairs, past a cat growling so deeply that my legs ache remembering our last run-in, then onto the landing and straight toward her room. Stepping into the darkness except for the light coming through her window, I drop her down onto the bed, rougher than I mean, but unable to do better.
Nadia pushes up to her ass and braces herself with her hands on the bed at her back, but then I follow her down, yank her shorts away so fast that threads snap, then bury my face between her legs and take what we both need.