Chapter 20 #2
“That’s sad,” I say. “She should have a best friend.”
“She had Amy—” He stops speaking and I look up at him, waiting for him to continue, but he isn’t even looking at me.
“Who—”
“Colt,” one of Colt’s men, I think he’s called Keto, calls out from the sidelines. We skate over, my questions lost when I see Keto’s expression. “It’s a little crowded.”
That isn’t what he wants to say. It’s a sign of danger, that someone is here that would ruin our night, or worse. Colt gives Keto a curt nod and leads me back to the gate.
“Who?” I ask as we sit.
“The usual suspects, no doubt,” he says, his voice low. “Low-level guys spot someone like me out in public and assume I’m alone. They see it as their one shot to take me down, especially now they know my face.”
This is one of the reasons my social life deteriorated back home. My dad always kept my profile low, but Ranger shoved me into the limelight, and the moment I became Mrs. Ranger Luxe, outings like this were forbidden or always cut short.
Colt has unlaced his skates before I’m even half done with one of mine.
I’ve never seen him this way—impatient and dark—and I wonder if it’s about the threat or whoever Amy is. Heaviness settles over us as he puts his shoes back on and then kneels before me to help me finish unlacing my skates. He works quickly, fingers snatching the string, until I catch his hand.
It’s warm and strong, veins pushing against his skin and running up his cuff.
I close my fingers around his, the contact strange, but it shouldn’t be.
We’ve been holding hands all night. He held me the first night we really met.
But heat tangles between us, created by both our bodies, and I should let go.
I shouldn’t touch him, no matter how innocent I convince myself it is.
If there wasn’t such hurt in his eyes, I would. Something is broken in him, snapped in two, and I’m scared if I let him go, he’ll shatter in front of me.
“Colt,” I say softly. He meets my eyes. “It’s okay. We don’t have to talk about it.”
He drops his gaze to our joined hands, or maybe he looks past them. He doesn’t even look like he’s here anymore.
Then he lifts my hand to his lips, kissing my knuckles briefly. “Let’s go.”
It shouldn’t affect me like it does. My heart shouldn’t race, and I shouldn’t keep hold of his hand as we leave. It feels safe—to pretend it’s just for comfort, when really, I like being this way with him. I like that the barriers between us are fading, even if I don’t know what it means.
When we’re out on the street, I reluctantly release his hand but lace my arm through his.
“Hungry?” he finally asks, and I nod enthusiastically.
Ten minutes later, we’re sitting on a bench eating banana pudding in silence. It’s still freezing, but I’m warmer than before, and I’m happy to sit quietly while Colt processes whatever he has to. I’ve almost finished my dessert when he finally speaks.
“Amy was my daughter,” he says, and he looks into the distance or at the dessert, but never at me. “She died. I don’t bring her up to anyone. That was just …” He pauses, as if gathering strength. “I didn’t mean to bring her up.”
I understand this pain. Of never knowing if talking about your grief is too much or not enough.
Of people looking at you like your loss could be contagious or too much of a brutal reminder of the fragility of life.
It’s not just losing your child; it’s losing anyone who can’t handle your pain, and that can be more people than you realize.
“You can talk about her whenever you like,” I say. “There’s no cap on that. If she were here, you’d have told me a hundred stories about her day, wouldn’t you?” He finally looks at me. “Just because she’s gone, doesn’t mean you don’t have stories to tell.”
It’s what I read online. Advice I tried to take when I felt like I wasn’t allowed to talk about Theo, when I had very little to say about him other than the few hours I held him, and the small noises he made, and how beautiful he was.
But even after trying to take that advice, I still felt like every time his name left my lips, people would recoil, or avoid me, or change the subject.
Especially when I tried to talk to Wyatt.
My grief felt like a burden, so I locked it away.
“There’s no pressure either way.” I scoop some more dessert into my mouth, and Colt doesn’t say anything. We finish our pudding, and we walk.
As always, it’s an easy kind of silence, one I only know how to navigate with a few people. It isn’t a void, or a pain, or a darkness threatening to suck me in. It’s just there, and it’s okay.
We’re nearly back at the hotel when he says, “She liked koalas.”
I smile. “Koalas are a solid animal to love.”
“She called them Kool-Aid bears for a while. It’s quite scary when you think about a giant koala breaking down walls.”
“Oh God, it is,” I say, wincing.
He smiles but doesn’t say anything else about Amy. Maybe that was enough for him.
“I like New York,” I say. “But I am fucking freezing.”
He grins. “Wanna go inside?”
“Yes, please.”
We head back to the hotel. It’s close to nine thirty, and Colt walks me to the door. I’m already warmer as I slide the keycard in and step inside.
“Thank you for taking me out,” I say, facing him.
“You’re welcome, Del.”
“Do you want to come in?” I ask. “I have chocolate and room service.”
“It’ll take more than that to get me into bed, Deluxe.”
I snort and roll my eyes, opening the door wider, and he steps over the threshold.
“I’m not telling you.”
“Come on!” Colt says, spooning more ice cream into his mouth. “Give me the details. Who plucked Denver DeLuca’s flower?”
We’re both on the couch, our shoes are off, and we ordered room service and watched a movie.
The Godfather because I’ve never seen it, and Colt pointed out several scenes he called far too accurate to be made up, and I gushed over a young Al Pacino.
Now, Beauty and the Beast is playing in the background as we talk.
My smile is hurting my cheeks. “If I tell you, then you cannot tell anyone,” I say, and point my spoon at him. “And I mean anyone.”
His eyes light up. “Scout’s honor.”
“Were you in the Scouts?”
“No, but it’s a saying.”
I focus on my ice cream. “Noah Merrick.”
His mouth drops open. “Robert Merrick’s son? You’re lying.”
Noah Merrick, whose father and mine were close friends. The Merricks are a smaller family, but still powerful, and Robert still checks in on me from time to time.
“It’s true,” I wrinkle my nose. “In his pool house. We were sixteen, and our dads had just told us we weren’t allowed to date, so that immediately made it the thing we wanted the most. And then we did it and panicked.
We knew my dad would try to kill Noah, then Robert would try to kill my dad, so we never spoke again.
” Colt laughs and I grin. “He was so sweet, though. I think we felt a little like Romeo and Juliet.”
“That’s cute,” he says. “Why can’t I tell anyone? What trouble would it cause now?”
“I think I’m afraid my dad can still hear me.” I eyeball the ceiling. “Sorry, Dad.”
Colt places his empty bowl on the coffee table and leans closer to me. “What was your dad like?”
“I’m sure you’ve heard the stories.”
“Yeah, his reputation, but not him.” He rests his head back against the cushion and watches me. “Tell me something no one knows.”
I suck on my spoon for a moment, recounting endless moments when my dad wasn’t being Nico DeLuca. When he was just my dad, and he made me laugh, embarrassed me, and told me he loved me a dozen times a day as if he thought I could ever forget.
“He made me do the cha-cha with him before prom.”
Colt’s grin lights up his face. “My mom made me dance with her before prom, too.”
“Oh my God, dance with me.” I hop up and place my bowl down, grab his hand, and he groans. “Please! It’ll be fun!” He becomes a dead weight, and I pout, tugging on his hand. “Please, Colt.”
“Fine.” He sighs, and I pull him to his feet. He pushes the coffee table aside and pulls me close, our bodies pressed together. “I’m a great dancer, by the way.”
“Then impress me.”
“Oh, I will. Siri, play ‘Die With A Smile.’”
“Bruno Mars fan?”
“Who isn’t?”
And of course, he is a good dancer. Far better than me, but that isn’t hard. It’s also incredibly annoying that he sings along, and his voice isn’t half bad, either. He spins me and I squeal excitedly before he pulls me close again.
“I hate that you’re good at everything.”
“It’s a curse.”
He spins me again, gliding us around the couch as if the suite is our own personal dancefloor. I laugh, my hair lifting as he twirls me, and we both sing along.
“Del can sing!” he says happily.
“You’re not the only one good at things.”
Our singing fills the suite, louder than the music, interspersed with laughter when we attempt notes we can’t hit.
He holds me close during the verses, somehow making me seem like a better dancer than I am, and the moment the chorus hits, he spins me, twirls me, has me laughing before pulling me to his chest again.
“I think any and all deals between Harlands and Luxes should be done while dancing,” I say.
“I like that idea. What deals are we making?”
“Lifelong friendships.” He dips me, holding me just above the ground.
He searches my face. “With me?”
“My equilibrium is off.”
“Huh?”
I nod at our position, and he stands us up. “Yes, with you. We’re friends, aren’t we?”
He doesn’t nod. Doesn’t say anything. I’m a little breathless from the dancing, and that must be why my cheeks are warm. I step back and sit on the sofa again.
“Next time, I pick the song. ‘Beauty and the Beast,’ specifically.” I take a deep breath. “You really are a good dancer.”
He sits beside me. “I can’t really take credit. Callie and I took lessons before we got married, and we kept them up. We only stopped when she got too pregnant to see her feet.” He exhales. “Fuck, I miss her.”
“What was she like?”