Chapter 40
Forty
It’s already dark at five fifteen—fuck you very much, Daylight Savings Time, and my face tingles from the icy cold after the three-mile walk from the Bierkeller to the house.
We got an early snow overnight that dumped two inches of fresh powder.
I should have driven today after Keith called and asked if I could fill in for Michelle who is down with the flu, but the roads were icy when I left the house, so I didn’t want to risk it.
Of course, I had to fend off three very demanding men insisting on taking me to work.
Maybe I should have given in. My frostbitten toes would have thanked me.
Numb toes aside, the long walk gave me time to think.
I want to make things right with Aleksander, but the damn man is avoiding me.
He wasn’t at the bell tower this morning when I dropped by.
He still wasn’t there when I stopped by just now.
And he won’t answer my texts. I’m tempted to ask Constantine or Tristan to track him down.
Aleksander and I have a lot we need to hash out. Not only about what happened last week, but also about the whole “spying” thing. I want to be upset about it. I should be upset about it. And the fact I’m not says a lot.
Rounding the corner, I can see the house in all its holiday-bedecked glory from down the street. I had a feeling Constantine wasn’t going to be able to wait until after Thanksgiving to put up the Christmas decorations. I’m surprised by how much the guys got done in the five hours I’ve been gone.
Stopping along the curb, I take in the million strands of multicolored LED lights and the festive animatronic displays that are jingle-bell rocking away in sync to the music blasting from the in-ground speakers.
An inflatable Santa riding a T-Rex greets me when I walk up the driveway, and a smile creases my cheeks when I see the snow sculpture the guys also made—a four-foot-tall rooster with a red scarf around its neck for the wattle.
Laughing, I snap a picture of the enormous Cocky Bastard with my phone and send it to Raquelle.
Me: Some inspiration for your next painting.
I doublecheck to make sure I haven’t missed a message from Aleksander and frown when I don’t see anything. I know I’m worrying about nothing, but something just feels…off. Like a faint niggling that won’t go away.
Dragging my weary ass up the porch steps and into the house, I dump my bag on the foyer floor and peel out of my winter gear, not bothering to hang anything up. I add my gloves to the heap on the foyer bench, take off my boots, and collapse back against the front door.
Today has been exhausting. I want a scalding hot shower, a chilled beer, and about twenty hours of sleep. Unfortunately, with a rambunctious infant who defies normal developmental milestones and started to crawl two days ago, rest is a luxury I never get anymore.
Mustering up the energy, I call out, “I’m home!”
“Shit, T, catch him!” Hendrix shouts from the kitchen, but it does little to slow the thunderous pitter-patter of tiny hands and knees that come fast and loud.
Any tiredness I’d been feeling evaporates when I see Fénix’s happy face. He looks more and more like Constantine every day. God help the female population when he becomes a teenager because my precocious boy is going to break hearts.
Dropping to my knees on the foyer rug, I hold out my arms. “There’s my gorgeous boy!”
He babbles excitedly as he races toward me, leaving a trail of baby drool on the wood flooring because he’s teething. His first bottom incisor broke through last week, and he’s been chewing on everything, including the furniture.
Constantine is worried that Fénix will have a speech impediment, and I have to keep reminding him that Fénix is two weeks shy of being six months old and that babbling is normal for that age. Babies usually don’t say their first meaningful words until they’re between eight to eighteen months old.
But I understand where Constantine’s apprehension is coming from. It stems from the stigmatization he went through when he couldn’t talk properly after Gabriel choked him. May the bastard continue to enjoy the tortures of burning in hell.
As soon as Fénix barrels into me, I lift him in my arms and snuggle the shit out of him. He smells like sunshine and baby lotion, and I bury my nose into his soft black hair, a universe of love for this tiny miracle bursting my heart wide open.
I wake up every morning so fucking thankful for the life I have now. I would endure all the pain and all the bad a million times over just to be right where I am, holding the most important thing in my world in my arms.
“Missed you so much.”
“Hey, baby,” Tristan says, kissing me hello. He strokes Fénix’s cheek. “This baby has been a handful today. I think he’s crawled over a mile and tried to get into every cabinet in the house. Thank God we put locks on everything.”
I blow a zerbert on Fénix’s neck that makes him squeal in the cutest way. “Have you been giving your Papa gray hairs, little monster?”
We wanted to help distinguish which man was which, so he wouldn’t start calling every man “dada.” So, Dada is Hendrix, Daddy is Constantine, and Papa is Tristan.
“Maybe a few.”
I sniff the air when the aroma of fresh-out-of-the-oven cookies makes my stomach grumble. “Is Dada making chocolate chip cookies?”
“I’m not supposed to tell,” Tristan whispers conspiratorially.
Laughing, I wipe the melted chocolate from the corner of his mouth. “Make sure to hide the evidence next time. Seems like some elves have been very busy today.”
“How did you like the rooster?”
“Loved it.”
“Want to see another surprise?”
I smooth back Fénix’s unruly hair that is in desperate need of a trim. “There’s more?”
Tristan nods while Fénix grabs my ponytail and yanks. He’s tactile like Tristan and loves to play with my hair or with the pressed flower necklace that Tristan had custom-made using the Rhizanthella orchid he gave me.
“Follow me.”
Carrying Fénix tucked against my hip, I go with Tristan into the living room and gape up at the ten-foot noble fir taking up a good chunk of space next to the fireplace.
“Thank you for not decorating it.” I wanted us to do it together as a family.
“We knew better,” he says with a chuckle. “We did go ahead and put on the lights since you hate that part.”
I do. The strands are always tangled in impossible knots that I have no patience to unravel. Alana took on that job every year.
“Check this out. Con found this cool breath-activated light controller that looks like Santa holding a candle.” Tristan opens his mouth wide and exhales on the head of the Santa like he’s about to eat it.
“Baby, I think you’re supposed to blow on the candle part, not deepthroat it.” I hide my amusement when it takes him three breathy tries to turn on the lights.
Fénix squirms to be let down, his attention lasered on the ornaments dangling from the bottom boughs of the tree. “I don’t think so, little man,” I tell him, tickling his tummy.
He lifts wide coal-dark eyes that are so much like his father’s and pouts with the expertise of a child who usually gets what he wants.
“We may have to put a baby gate up around the tree.”
“I think you’re right,” Tristan replies.
Fénix blinks up at me—his mouth curving down, and big crocodile tears begin to well, warning of an impending temper tantrum—then he immediately gets distracted because babies have the attention span of a goldfish.
That sixth sense I have with each of my guys has only gotten stronger over the years, and awareness hits me like a lightning bolt when Constantine walks into the room.
He wraps his arms around me from behind, and I turn in his embrace, cuddling into him. This man has always been my comfort.
“I like the decorations.”
“You look tired,” he says in that deep, raspy rumble that sets me on fire.
“I am.”
His cheek nuzzles the top of my head, his lips kissing my hair. “How does a bubble bath and a foot massage sound?”
Pressing my lips to his, I peer up at him. “Like absolute heaven,” I emphatically reply. “Feed me first.”
His wicked half grin announces the dirty thought his mind immediately jumps to.
“With food,” I clarify. “I want some of those cookies I can smell.”
Tristan takes Fénix when he begins to fuss and shows him how the Santa turns the lights on and off. It’s freaking hilarious to watch as he practically hyperventilates while huffing in rapid succession like the Big Bad Wolf.
“You break that, you’re replacing it,” Constantine says.
Because I can, I practically climb him. He’s wearing the light-blue shirt I love because it brings out the flecks of gold in his midnight eyes. Grabbing under my ass, he hefts me up, and my legs lock around his lean waist.
“I want a proper kiss,” I demand, looping my arms around his neck.
“Bossy,” he replies but gives me what I want and proceeds to curl my damn toes when he kisses me like we’re the only two people in the room.
The guys and I try very hard to keep the PDA G-rated for Fénix’s sake, but we also don’t shy away from being affectionate in front of him.
At his age, it really isn’t an issue because he won’t remember anything.
But I want him growing up and seeing every day how much his parents love one another.
Safe, protected, cherished, happy, and deeply loved.
Vital and important things Fénix will always know.
With the impatient exuberance only an infant can have, Fénix kicks and wriggles and vocalizes his displeasure until Tristan sets him on the floor. He immediately takes off like a scurrying cockroach. Not the best analogy, but an accurate one. Constantine deftly snatches him up.
While they play, I get a piggyback ride on Tristan’s back into the kitchen.
“Hey, sexy mama,” Hendrix says when he sees me.