Chapter 6
Steve
“Did you have a good time?” Nash asked Aya when she returned from the Graces’ ranch. He’d met her at the back door, barely letting it swing shut before he tugged her further into the room.
Like Aya, Nash had grown up in a mansion that dripped wealth, but he’d bought himself a rambling ranch with a relatively modest four bedrooms. Granted, it had a killer view of the lake and multiple fenced acres, but my boy wasn’t just a famous musician, he was a billionaire, the sole heir to the Syad fortune in addition to the millions he’d made with his platinum records.
That was how we’d reconnected; Mr. Syad hired me to protect his grandson.
No doubt the old man had been well aware of my relationship with Carolina as well as mine to Nash—he’d been a crafty old goat.
But then, you’d have to be to make the kind of money most people couldn’t even dream of.
Even more surprising, Nash and Aya had turned the house they’d moved into after their wedding into a cozy, loving home. It was comfortable and without any of the pretentiousness I’d hated about Nash’s childhood house.
Nash’s kitchen was spacious and well-designed, my favorite room.
I busied myself over by the sink, hulling some strawberries for the shortcake I’d planned for dinner.
Levi was very into smashing biscuits and chewing berries with his seven pearly white teeth, and I aimed to please the little guy.
His sloppy grins were the best reward I’d ever received.
“Oh, yes. You know I love spending time with my ladies.” Aya rose on her tiptoes and kissed her husband again, who wrapped his arms around her waist and tugged her closer so that he could kiss her more deeply.
I turned away, embarrassed by their easy affection.
The kiss lasted a long time—long enough for me to finish cutting up the strawberries.
Next, I moved on to chopping potatoes. The dish I’d planned required them to be cut into matchsticks so that each edge was browned, creating a nice crunch around the fluffy, soft center.
Aya strolled over and pecked my cheek. I patted her shoulder, awkward as always, but at least I no longer grunted, blushed, and ran away.
“Any craziness I should know about?” Nash asked. He poured Aya a cup of chai, which she’d taken to after Levi’s birth, drinking it throughout the day.
She settled at the bar, her eyes sparkling when she glanced at me, as if she knew I wanted her to give up the caffeine. Aya took a long sip and sighed, her lips curving up as mine curled down.
“Mm. Not in the way you think.”
Nash settled onto the barstool next to her and leaned his forearms onto the white granite of the raised bar. “I don’t know. When you, Kate, and Jenna get together, there’s always some level of crazy—”
“In a good way,” Aya finished. “And we stayed at the Big House, so no hijinks occurred that your PR teams are going to sweat over.”
“Then what was so pressing?” Nash asked. “I thought Jenna was having a donut emergency or something.”
Aya chuckled. “We drank tea and ate oatmeal-raisin cookies. And I brought you both home a tin full.”
Nash rubbed his hands together, glee shimmering in his eyes. So much better than the dark storms that used to build there.
“…set Mama Grace up on some dates.”
My knife stopped rocking. I turned, wanting to read Aya’s expression. Maybe I’d misheard…
“She wasn’t keen on the idea, but we realized she’s lonely. That’s why Jenna called us together.”
“And you three decided she needed to meet someone?” Nash asked, amused.
Aya’s nod was decisive. “She’s been alone for a long time and deserves someone in her life who cares about her. I mean, her dead husband was an absolute piece of work. Even Kate agrees he was terrible to her mother.”
Nash leaned back against the counter, his fist against his temple. He looked so relaxed—how could anyone be relaxed right now? Jasmine dating…that was a disaster.
Aya sipped her tea before setting it on the bar next to Nash’s arm and snuggling closer to him.
“I thought maybe we could introduce her to Malcolm Grant,” Aya said.
“That jackass?” I scoffed.
Aya turned toward me, eyes wide. “What’s wrong with Malcolm? He’s successful and kind.”
“And has never done a day of actual labor in his life.” I lifted the knife and redoubled my efforts on the potatoes, chopping with more force than needed.
“Aya’s right. Malcolm’s only ever been nice to us,” Nash said, eying me. Something flicked through his gaze. I turned away, busying myself with tossing the potatoes in the ice bath so they didn’t brown.
“Doesn’t mean he knows how to put in a full day of physical labor,” I snapped.
Nash frowned. “It’s not like he’s going to be cutting down trees for Mama Grace. Why do you care who she sees, anyway? You two speak to each other. Well, except during Christmas Eve dinner. Besides that, I didn’t think you’d interacted much.”
“Not since our wedding,” Aya piped in.
My heart seemed to freeze, my chest so damn tight I wondered if I was having a heart attack. “Jasmine and I get along just fine. She’s a lovely woman. That’s why I want to make sure you don’t set her up with a…a…”
“Jackass?” Nash asked, amusement lacing his tone.
I gave a single, sharp nod.
“Well, we can run it by Cam,” Aya said, picking up her mug. “Maybe he’ll have some other folks to add to our list.”
“How long is this list?” I asked through gritted teeth.
“Right now, we have seven names,” Aya said.
She walked around the bar and rinsed out her mug while I tried not to pop a blood vessel.
Seven men. Not one. Seven.
“Where’s my son?” Aya asked, unaware of the explosion she’d set off in my head. “I want to snuggle him.”
The baby monitor Nash had clipped to his waist flashed and sounds of Levi stirring flared from the speaker. “Good timing,” he said.
“I’ve got him. We’ll read a few stories and play,” Aya said. She brushed another kiss to Nash’s lips before she hurried out of the kitchen, her steps light.
I bit back a growl because I didn’t want her encouraging Jasmine to dream of romance—with someone else. Sure, it was selfish, but I didn’t want any man to replace the towering passion we’d ignited in each other.
Crouching down, I fumbled through my pots as I searched for the large, cast iron one I wanted to sauté my potatoes.
“What’s got you in such a mood?” Nash asked.
I glanced up before dropping my gaze quickly. Nash wasn’t as good at reading me as I was at reading him, but that’s because I didn’t give him the opportunity. Nash was empathetic by nature—that made him an even better creative.
I didn’t need him picking up on my disquiet. “Who said I was in a mood?”
“Your snappy tone and all that pot-banging you’re doing,” he said.
Rising, I settled the shallow skillet onto the Wolf cooktop with silent precision. Once I turned on the burner and waited until the gas caught, I turned the knob to medium heat. I added olive oil to the pan with a deft flick of my wrist. No way he could accuse me of anything untoward now.
“Why don’t you go work on that song you were telling me about?” I asked. “I need to make dinner and you know you just get in the way.”
Nash raised a thick brown eyebrow. “All right. Dismiss me. For now. But I expect you to be honest with me, Pops. We made a pact.”
I thrilled at the term, even though Nash threw it out ironically.
He rarely called me anything other than Steve, and I didn’t want to push him for more than he wanted to give.
I hadn’t been much of a father to him, hadn’t even known he could be mine until I started working as his bodyguard when he was a teenager.
Even then, I’d let his stepfather, Brad Porter, treat Nash with disdain and disrespect because I hadn’t wanted to make the kid’s life worse by overstepping my role.
I should have, though, because Brad knew I was Nash’s father, and did his best to destroy that bond before it had a chance to blossom.
That was over now. Yet each time I remembered my inability to save my son from the other man’s abuse, I was gutted.
Over time, I’d realized that monsters have no race, financial, or gender barriers—bad people exist everywhere sometimes despite their seemingly-perfect lives.
But by the time I understood that reality, Nash’s mother was too cowed and too far gone with drugs and alcohol to help our son, and Nash followed soon after.
He spiraled so far down he barely managed to save himself.
I bit my cheek, hating that I’d hurt him, vowing again to do better, be better, for my family.
Which meant steering clear of Jasmine and her new soon-to-be-boyfriend, that jackass Malcom.
I scowled as I dropped the potatoes in the skillet. The sizzle and steam rose quickly, not unlike my temper at the idea of Malcom touching Jasmine’s lovely, smooth skin.