Chapter 33 #2
He’s not wrong. There’s a ton to choose from at “Steak on the Rock.” Black caviar in a tiny dish with silver spoons, oysters in a velvety green sauce, gingered tuna, steak tartare—which is easily my favorite as it melts on my tongue—meatballs, spicy octopus, delicate lamb chops in mint sauce, and the one Daddy gobbles down: maple-glazed bacon.
Small bowls of lobster bisque and grilled asparagus arrive as sides.
Or maybe just to break up the unrelenting parade of protein.
Despite the carnivore overload, it’s all delicious.
Livvy thinks so, too. When she wakes up with a huge stretch and a little coo, we give her tiny tastes of the tomatoey sauce for the meatballs, the mint sauce for the lamb, and the lobster bisque. She licks her lips after every taste and sticks her tongue out after the lobster bisque.
“You have such good taste, Livvy-bit,” I tell her, as I dab my pinkie into the smear of soup left in the bottom of my bowl and touch it to her tongue.
Her grin is brighter than the lights on the tree outside.
The only thing I don’t like about “Steak on the Rock” is a funny sense that we’re being watched.
The private room is on the second floor of the restaurant, with a wall of windows looking out over the square with its twinkling lights.
People in the other buildings around the square can look in but I don’t have any sense that they’re watching us.
The glass might be treated or something.
Our nice waiter checks in twice but doesn’t linger.
I don’t know why I have this hair-raising sense that someone has an unfriendly eye on us.
“Can we take an Uber home?” I ask as we wait for the waiter to bring dessert.
“Of course.” Daddy wipes his mouth. “Are you tired?”
“A little. It’s more that I feel like we’re being watched.”
Daddy straightens in the maroon-upholstered chair. “How long have you felt this way?”
I reach across the table and curl my fingers over Daddy’s. “Hmm, maybe when we left Blunts but I’m still a little self-conscious in public when I call you Daddy, so it might just have been that on the train.”
“I’m going to break the phone at the table rule for the sole purpose of putting Max on alert, baby doll.”
I nod. Safety first.
Daddy pulls out his phone and sends Max a text before tucking the phone back in his jacket pocket.
“Thank you for always taking my concerns seriously, Daddy.”
“Always, baby. Always.”
Daddy’s phone buzzes. He takes it out and reads the message, taps a quick response, and puts it away. “Mac’s inbound. He should be here around the time we’re ready to go, so there’s no rush. I want you to relax and enjoy dessert.”
“This has been wonderful, Daddy.” I squeeze his fingers. “I love having all our friends around but sometimes it’s nice to just be with you. And Livvy.”
“I always want to make time for us, baby. And that can be just you and me if you don’t want to spend time with Livvy. You’ve been wonderful with her but I appreciate you may want down time. This has to be taxing for you.”
I shake my head, feeling my hair brush my shoulders through the thin fabric of my dress. “I love taking care of her. I’m a little more tired than usual but not too much. If you could add a nap for me now and then, I think that would take care of it.”
“Okay, baby, I’ll do that.”
The door to our private dining room opens and the waiter brings the tasting flight of chocolate mousse, mini-cheesecakes, and three different types of cognac for Daddy.
I don’t get any creepy vibe from him. Daddy evidently doesn’t either, although he gives the waiter an extra once-over before thanking him and asking for the bill.
As a special treat for being out together, Daddy gives me sips from each of the small glasses of cognac.
I don’t really like hard alcohol but the cognac is delicious.
One’s light and fruity, one’s sharp and tingly, and one’s smoky.
I lick my lips like Livvy after each sip.
Daddy, watching me, grins as he finishes off each glass of cognac.
By the time the waiter’s come back and Daddy’s paid for our meal—I don’t look at the bill, this is a treat and I’m sure it was an extravagance but I trust Daddy to manage our money—Mac has messaged to say he’s five minutes away. We pack up and head down to the street to wait for Master Mac.
There’s a special magic to New York at Christmas-time.
Everything’s sparklier, rosier, merrier.
People who would normally hurry past with their heads down meet your eyes and nod in acknowledgement.
With the stores open late and playing Christmas tunes, there’s always music in the air.
I cuddle under Daddy’s arm and soak in the atmosphere.
Until I meet a pair of bright blue eyes.
I straighten. She’s standing across the street, wearing an oversized coat, a gray hoodie pulled up over her hair.
I move out from under Daddy’s arm and turn Livvy’s stroller so she’s behind us, tucked against the restaurant’s outer wall. I glare at Miranda.
Daddy follows my gaze. “Fuck.”
Miranda ducks her head and crosses the street with a flow of pedestrians. As she approaches, Daddy shifts to stand in front of me.
“Stop there,” Daddy says when Miranda reaches the sidewalk.
Miranda lifts her head and glares blue fire at Daddy. “Why? It’s a public sidewalk. I can walk anywhere I want.”
“Walk any closer to Emily and Livvy and we’ll have a problem. You don’t want to have a problem with me.”
Miranda rolls her eyes. “If you touch me I’ll scream, fall down, and develop bruises that will have you in handcuffs before you can blink. What would that bastard judge think of your fitness as a parent then?”
“Since I’m defending my daughter and fiancée from an unhinged stalker, I suspect the court would commend me. Turn around and walk away,” Daddy’s voice drops to a growl.
Behind me, Livvy starts to whimper, probably reacting to Logan’s tone.
Miranda clutches her chest dramatically. “She’s crying. She needs me. She needs her mother. How can you be so cruel as to keep my baby from me, James Logan?”
Her voice rises on Daddy’s name. A few of the people milling around, waiting for the light to change, look our way.
Daddy shakes his head but I can see his shoulders tighten. He doesn’t know how to deal with Miranda.
But I do. While Daddy’s still shielding me, I take out my phone, start the voice recording, and slip it back in my pocket. Then I step up beside Daddy and slip my hand into his, pulling the stroller close behind me.
“Miranda.” At her name, her eyes track to me. “Making a scene is not going to get you access to Olivia. Following us around New York is not going to get you access to Olivia. You’re just alienating us and giving us evidence for a restraining order. What are you trying to gain?”
She sneers at me. “Don’t talk to me, you dozy little mare. You had your chance. I told you to bring her to me. We could have worked things out, woman to woman. You ignored me, so I had to escalate.”
I check her pockets. There’s no bulge, no heavy hang to her coat. She could still have a weapon, though. She’s a doctor, although Daddy said she hasn’t treated patients in a long time. She could do a lot of damage with a scalpel and it wouldn’t weigh down her pockets too much.
I shift the backpack of Livvy’s diapers and Little Larrys off the stroller handle and into my free hand.
“This is escalating?” I ask. “Following us? Confronting us on a public street? This isn’t going to get you anywhere.” I step forward, holding the bag in front of me. “Why are you in New York, Miranda?”
“To be near my baby, of course.” Her eyes redden. “There’s nowhere else in the world for me.”
“That’s not true. You still have your house in England, by the river, isn’t it?” I pause and when she nods in agreement, I continue, “You decorated it just the way you like, didn’t you?”
“Olivia’s never gotten to see her nursery,” she says.
The first tear spills down her pale cheek. Her skin’s mottled with red patches, like eczema. Stress? Or maybe she’s not used to New York’s dry cold?
“She’s never going to, Miranda,” I tell her.
It’s a little brutal but I want to snap her out of whatever crazy fantasy she’s building in her head.
“She’s never going back to England with you.
She’ll never live with you. That will never be her nursery.
But it’s still your home. It’s where you belong.
Where your career is. Where your friends are—”
“Where her empty nursery is,” Miranda spits.
“You can redecorate the nursery,” I say firmly. “If you go home now, you could have it done for Christmas. You don’t want to be here in New York for the holidays. I know how awful it is to be alone during the holidays. It’s terrible for your mental health—”
“What do you care about my mental health, you bitch?” Miranda yells. Her hand, raw and red, plunges into her pocket.
I knew it. Behind me, Daddy shouts but I’m already bringing up the bag as Miranda lunges forward.
Everything slows down. I have time to focus on the glittering edge in her hand, to see her fingernails, chewed to the quick, pressed so hard against the handle of the small blade they’re white.
The impact on the bag staggers me back into Daddy.
His hard arms close around me, catching me, keeping me from falling, the way he always does.
Miranda stumbles backwards, her hand flying to her mouth, tears running down her chapped cheeks. “Oh, God.”
I’m a fierce, white, baby dragon and I’m not afraid of her.
I pull myself upright in Daddy’s hold. “Knife!” I say, loudly enough to get the attention of everyone around us. People stop and turn to look at us.
“Motherfuck—!” Daddy’s hands run down me frantically. “Baby?”
“I’m okay,” I reassure him. Sharply, I say, “Miranda, go home. You just attacked me with a knife. Everyone here is a witness. I’m recording this. There’s CCTV. If you don’t want to spend Livvy’s childhood in jail, go home.”
She hunches over like she’s going to puke, shaking her head. “I’m so sorry. Oh, God, I’m so sorry.”
“Lo!” Master Mac shouts. I hear running footsteps but I don’t take my eyes off Miranda.
“Miranda, I won’t warn you again. Go home.”
She straightens and looks at me, her eyes pleading. “Emily—”
“Don’t you dare talk to her,” Daddy snarls.
“It’s okay,” I say. “This is the last time she ever will. Go home, Miranda. Go home. This is done.”
She nods, turns, and runs across the street, dodging traffic.
Daddy grabs my shoulders and turns me around. I hold the bag out to the side so the scalpel doesn’t get caught between our bodies. Daddy looks down at me, his hand running down the front of my coat.
“Baby, where’s the knife?”
I hold up the diaper bag.
Daddy chokes, then begins to laugh. “Livvy’s diaper bag?”
I nod. “She may have hit a few Little Larrys, too.”
“Baby.” Daddy pulls me close and wraps me in a tight hug. “I’ll buy you a million Little Larrys.”
I reach behind him, grab the handle of Livvy’s stroller, and move it back and forth so she stops whimpering. I couldn’t hear her during my confrontation with Miranda. Tunnel hearing, I guess. But now I can hear her building up to a full fret. My psychic baby.
“I’m okay, Daddy,” I promise him. “Can we go home now?”
He kisses me on the forehead and squeezes me before he lets me go. “Yes, my little wonder. Let’s go home.”
A hard arm comes around my back. I control a flinch. Miranda wouldn’t touch me like that. It has to be Master Mac. I look up into his red face. He takes Livvy’s diaper bag and glares at the scalpel handle sticking out of it like it’s done him personal wrong.
“Don’t touch it,” Daddy warns. “It’ll have Miranda’s fingerprints on it.”
Mac nods and holds the backpack horizontal so the handle sticks up out of it. A silver, accusatory finger. I imagine it chasing Miranda all the way back to England.
Mac leads us to an Uber where a very harassed-looking driver is trying to ignore the horns blaring behind him.
We make quick work of climbing in, unclipping the stroller seat from its base, and clicking it into the seat belt.
I settle on one side of the stroller seat and Daddy sits on the other, awkwardly stretching across so he can put his arm around my shoulders.
I understand his need to have us both in his arms and lean in.
As the car pulls out in a fresh flurry of horns, I take a deep breath and let it out. It took a sword, a shield, and an attempted stabbing but the Mir-beast has finally been defeated.