8. Chapter Eight
Chapter Eight
Ava
From the second-floor window of Landon’s room, I watch Stephen arrive.
Observing him while my son gets dressed in the morning has become my favorite ritual.
What I’ve discovered is that if I stay a step or two back from the windowsill, Stephen doesn’t notice me.
Whenever he has seen me, his closed-off expression makes me want to take a crowbar to his resolve.
Not the best instinct. From a step or two back, I get a true sense of what he’s like on the job, around people who aren’t me, and his locked-down persona doesn’t make me want to do dangerous things.
Right now, he’s clearly frustrated, but I’m having a hard time figuring out exactly why.
We woke up to protesters at the gates of our estate.
A lot of them. Seems unbelievable to me that Raul’s workers don’t have anything better to do with their time off.
Why come to the house when the guy they’re trying to get through to isn’t even here? Makes no sense.
“Ready!” Landon says from behind me. He no longer needs my help to get dressed, but he likes to have me somewhere in the room in case he gets stuck or can’t find something he wants to wear. “Is Stephen here?”
“He is,” I say, ruffling his dark hair. “You know Kiara’s the one you’re supposed to wonder about.”
“I like Stephen best,” Landon says. “He likes the Bellerive Bullets too.”
“He likes ice hockey too, does he?” I usher Landon out of the room and toward the stairway.
Unlike me, Landon seems to be a welcome presence in the front foyer, where Stephen spends most of his time in the mornings and evenings before the night shift arrives.
Landon gets a consistent male presence outside the house from my siblings and their partners, but this is the first time Landon’s had an adult male in the house take a keen, consistent interest. Hearing the two of them together in the mornings and evenings causes that ache in my chest to spread and spread and spread.
The sensation is what I suspect it’d be like to have an alien take over your body—just a flood of foreign emotion.
My life didn’t feel fucked up until Stephen came back, and now nothing feels right. Like I took a wrong turn, and I’ve ended up on a journey that was never meant for me.
Landon beats me down the stairs, and rather than waiting for Stephen to come in, he rushes out the front door. I go to the door in time to see Stephen scoop him up into his arms, and then Landon seems to see all the people chanting at our gates.
I can’t tell what they’re saying, but it looks as though Stephen’s explaining something to him. Stephen’s scowl and foul mood I noted from the second-floor window are completely gone now. Whether that’s due to Landon’s presence or whatever Stephen was mad about has been resolved, I don’t know.
“That’s a lot of people,” Landon says when he comes into the house, Stephen and Datu on his heels. “So loud!”
With the door open, their chanting is more obvious. For a beat, I try to listen, but I can’t make out what they’re saying.
“We’ll need to leave earlier,” Stephen says. “We’ll have to go slow wading through the crowd. I told Kiara and her crew to meet us at the school. No point in her fighting through that just to go through again. We’ll drop off Landon.”
“I get to ride with you?” Landon asks, and his awed tone makes me stifle a smile.
“You do, buddy. Just for today. Wheels up in ten. Eat in the car,” Stephen says.
When we leave, Stephen and Datu are sitting in the front.
Stephen is driving, and he meets Landon’s gaze in the rearview mirror.
“People are probably going to shout at the car. They might hit the car. They might throw things at the car. But you’re safe, okay, buddy?
Anyone who tries to get to you has to come through me. ”
Landon sets his jaw and nods. “And you’re really good at your job.”
“There’s no one better,” Stephen says in a matter-of-fact tone. “We’ll get you to school safe and sound.”
When the gates swing back, the car creeps through the crowd, and Landon tucks himself under my arm as people slap the car and yell into the tinted windows.
“I don’t know what they think they’re going to accomplish,” I say. “Raul’s not even here.”
“You didn’t hear their chant?” Stephen asks, meeting my gaze in the rearview briefly before returning his focus to the crowd in front.
“No,” I say.
“Part of it was ‘Help us, Ava,’ so they aren’t here for your husband,” Stephen says.
“Harassing me isn’t going to make me want to help.”
“I know that,” Stephen says with a wry smile, “but they obviously don’t. Peer pressure’s always made you want to do the opposite thing.”
The admission that he knows me, knows how I’ll respond, causes warmth to spread across my body.
“If they want to waste their time,” I say, “who am I to stop them?”
“As long as they stay behind the gates,” Stephen says, “they can do and say what they want.”
I leave work early so we can pick up Landon after school and just take one car through the crowd of protesters. If it’s possible, there are even more. Raul has a lot of workers at The Nile, but I’m still surprised at the volume.
“Is your sister in this crowd?” I ask Stephen as we inch through.
“I hope not,” he says with a grimace.
“Ugh,” Landon says. “A sister? I don’t want a sister.”
“She’s not so bad,” Stephen says. “You’d want a brother?”
“Maybe,” Landon says, cuddling closer to me as another person bangs on the car. “Can I get a brother?” Landon gazes up at me.
“One healthy, happy kid is all I need,” I say, keeping my voice light but loud enough to combat the chaos we’re driving through. It’s not the first time the idea of a sibling has come up. Having another baby with Raul is out of the question.
“I’m hungry,” Landon says, and I’m grateful he’s moved on so quickly.
“Spaghetti tonight,” I say, remembering the menu the chef and I agreed on for the time Raul is gone.
“I love spaghetti. Do you love spaghetti, Stephen?” Landon asks, rubbing his tummy.
“I do,” Stephen agrees.
“Do you want to eat spaghetti with us?” Landon asks.
Rather than shutting Landon down, I leave the offer sitting between us. The three of us sitting at the table eating dinner sounds kind of nice, the sort of domesticated bliss that I never thought I’d crave.
“I’m eating with my parents tonight,” Stephen says. “Maybe another time.”
“How are they?” I ask.
“Same as always,” Stephen says, fluffing me off.
We get through the crowd and to the front door, the gates closing behind us.
“Stay here,” Stephen says, meeting my gaze in the mirror. “I’m checking the cameras for any trespassers before we go in.”
Datu turns in his seat and starts asking Landon questions about school while we wait for Stephen to come back.
A while later, the door beside me opens, and Stephen ducks down, ignoring me and addressing Landon. “Let’s get you fed, buddy.”
“No problems?” I ask, climbing out after Landon scrambles across me and into Stephen’s arms.
“All clear,” Stephen says, turning Landon upside down to his delighted squeals.
“Again! Again!” Landon calls out when Stephen rights him.
Leaving them in the front foyer, I head to the kitchen, getting the spaghetti out of the freezer and turning on the oven. Our chef does more of a spaghetti bake rather than a traditional spaghetti and meatballs, but Landon loves this version best.
He comes racing into the kitchen just as I’m sliding the container into the oven.
“Garlic bread, Mom?” he asks.
I purse my lips and scan the counter. We have some fresh bread, and I’m sure the chef has a garlic spread in the fridge.
Searching through the shelves, I find what I’m looking for, and then I get out a cutting board to slice the French bread our chef sometimes makes at the start of a week.
It’s crusty, and the outside is a bit slick from whatever coating the chef uses.
The bread knife is nowhere to be found, so I grab one of the smooth knives and start trying to cut through the thick bread.
“Mom, look!” Landon cries from the living room.
I glance up to see him doing a flip on the couch, and the knife slips. A sharp pain streaks through my fingers, and I give an involuntary cry.
“What happen?” Landon asks, running over to me.
“I cut myself,” I say, holding up my two bleeding fingers.
“Oh no!” Landon runs toward the front foyer. “Stephen, come quick. Mommy’s hurt.”
“It’s—” But the rest of my sentence dies on my lips as Stephen beats Landon back to the kitchen, his suit jacket flapping behind him like a cape.
“You’re hurt?” Stephen’s brow is furrowed when he reaches the island and sees the blood on the counter. “You cut yourself?”
“Stupid,” I say. “I was slicing bread with the wrong knife.”
He takes my small hand in his big one and turns it over, examining the cuts. My breath gets stuck in my throat at the tender way he’s holding my palm. Our chef keeps our knives very sharp, and the cuts are deeper than I would have thought for such a quick mistake.
“Does Mommy need a Band-Aid?” Landon asks from behind Stephen.
“Can you get the first aid kit from the front foyer, bud? It’s in the cabinet by the door.” Stephen reaches behind him and grabs some paper towel, pressing it gently against my cuts.
Landon races off at top speed.
This close, Stephen’s oaky scent invades my senses, and I close my eyes, trying to breathe him in without being obvious.
Having his bulky, overpowering manliness this close already makes the sting of my cuts less than it was a minute ago.
Being hovered over by him makes me feel tiny and delicate, which isn’t a familiar sensation anymore, but my body remembers it, wants to respond to it, turn toward him.
“Are you okay?” Stephen asks, his voice gruff.
When I open my eyes, he’s peering down at me, his scotch-colored eyes brimming with so much concern that I can’t resist cupping his cheek with my uninjured hand. He leans into the contact ever so slightly, and a zing of triumph shoots through me.
“I’ve always been accident prone,” I murmur.