REDEEMING THE ROSE: GILDED KNIGHTS SERIES BOOK 1 Read online

  “Ha!” Stepping forward and stopping just three feet in front of me, he looks down at the wet floor and nods. “I don’t hate him, specifically. It’s not personal.”

  “You just don’t like any guy at all who dares take a second look at her.”

  “Right.” Warmth spreads along his neck and touches the bottoms of his ears. “It gives me the heebie-jeebies even thinking about Abby having a man. Especially that man, since in my head, she’s still a child, and he’s a thirty-year-old fucking monster. But…” He shrugs. “Turns out I don’t get an opinion.”

  “Solid character growth. And it only took you almost three decades to figure it out.”

  “Shush.”

  Taking another step closer, he stops so the toes of his boots, and the toes of mine, are almost touching. “I’m working on me, Nadia. I’m trying really fuckin’ hard, and I’m pretty sure my blood pressure thanks me for it.”

  “I’m working on me too,” I whisper in reply. “In fact, Arlo and I were discussing just this morning that maybe we’re not doomed in love.”

  “Arlo is talking love?” Mitchell does what Mitchell does; he shoots a glare through the window, and officially takes my cousin in as a damsel he must protect. “But she’s just a baby.”

  Laughing, I throw caution to the wind and close the gap between us until we stand chest to chest, and I’m able to rest my cheek on Mitchell’s shoulder. “You’re trying so hard,” I snicker, “and yet, your instinct is to save all the women.”

  “You’re gonna hold that against me?” He wraps his arms around my torso and keeps me close. We’re making up, we’re arguing, and he’s not letting go. “You’re saying I’m a bad guy because I want everyone to be safe?”

  “No.” I draw a deep breath, exhale, and grin when he does the same. “You make it hard for me to get mad. So sure. Save the women. But be mindful of your actions, and don’t step on toes.”

  “Whose toes?”

  “Spencer’s,” I smart. “Abby’s. Mine. Arlo’s.”

  “You’re just cutting me off at every turn, huh? Who do I get to smother if not any of those people?”

  “Maybe you could take up a hobby?”

  I glance across the shop when I catch movement, only to grin and press a finger to my lips when Roy’s eyes bulge out of his head.

  I see you! he’s saying. Am I seeing things?

  When I remain in place and don’t freak out, Roy nods once, backs up, and turns his tush around to make himself busy somewhere else.

  “Alternatively, you could spend your time dating me… ya know, in the open and all that,” I offer. “A meal in public, holding hands where other people can see.”

  “Well, hold on.” Mitchell pulls back and studies my eyes. “That’s a lot of commitment, Mooch. Not sure I’m ready for that yet.”

  “Shut up.” I smack his chest and laugh, but he changes everything when he places a hand under my chin and tilts it up so we’re barely an inch apart.

  His eyes are like emeralds, his breath is on my tongue. He inches closer, closer, closer, and silently asks permission before he takes.

  I hesitate. There are people outside, and we’re standing in the window. Sure, maybe Abby isn’t here, so we’re still not entirely out, but this is still a big step for us.

  “Okay.” I whisper the word and nod just once. “Yeah. Kiss me.”

  “Done.”

  He swoops in without giving me a single second to reconsider, slams his lips to mine, and snakes his tongue inside so my knees turn to jelly, and my brain leaks out my ears.

  It’s a good melt. An excellent way to go out.

  His arms hold me up, they wrap me so tight that I won’t fall. I can’t fall. His hands lap around my torso and make me feel small, delicate, and loved.

  “We’re gonna make this work,” I say breathlessly. “I promise to try.”

  “And I promise to be better. I want to keep you forever.”

  “Or at least until Troy gets home,” I snicker so my breath leaves my mouth and jumps into Mitchell’s. “Then we’ll see what’s up.”

  “I hate you.” He bites my bottom lip, and when I continue to laugh, sweeps his hand under my thighs and scoops me into the air until my laughter turns to a squeal.

  I sling my arms around his shoulders in fear, but he drops his lips to mine again and demands all of me. He demands I love, and that I do it without fear. He demands I accept him for who he is, and in return, he loves me for me.

  “Say it, Mooch.” He nips at my jaw, one quick bite, and then another. “Tell me what I want to hear.”

  “You’re handsome.”

  “Thanks,” he chuckles. “But no.”

  “You’re probably the most handsome of all your brothers.”

  “Definitely. But try again.”

  “I love you.” The words leave me on a sigh. Because he won. He won all of me. But instead of getting mad about it, I smile and repeat, “I love you.”

  “I love you too.” He takes my mouth with his, and squeezes me so close that I can barely breathe. Despite that, I stay where I am, kissing in the window for anyone to see, kissing him back and doing it without fear. “I’m gonna sleep over tonight,” he pants between kisses. “I’ll bring headphones for Arlo.”

  Probably need some for my squatter too, I think to myself, only to giggle a nervous laugh. “I, uh, probably should tell you some stuff you’ve missed since we had our fight. Some kinda important stuff.”

  “At dinner,” he says. “Tonight.”

  And that, I think, is another moment of growth for Mitchell. His ability to put this seemingly important information on hold and not demand to know all—and control all—in the immediate moment is progress.

  “Yes?” he prompts.

  “Yes. Dinner tonight. I promise.”

  Thud, thud, thud! A heavy fist slams against the window, so loud and jarring, I jump in Mitchell’s arms.

  My heart stops in my throat at being caught kissing a Rosa in public, but it gets worse—worse even than if it was Abby who caught us—when my eyes stop on a pair of muddy and mean brown.

  “Really?!” Cady’s grieving and enraged father roars. “Really?”

  “Fuck.” Instead of getting pissed, or readying to fight, Mitchell only sighs and sets me back on my feet. “I’ll deal with—”

  “Wait, stop.” I grab his hand when he turns to head toward the door. “Just stop. His wife is with him.” I shoot a look to the couple on the sidewalk, and focus on the spacey expression on Marjorie’s face as she looks at us. She’s lost touch with reality, so deeply sunken in her grief, she doesn’t know which way is up anymore. “You need to be delicate about it.”

  “I’m gonna be delicate.” He twists our hands, so instead of me holding him back, Mitchell now holds me in an embrace. “Come with me,” he sighs. Already exhausted at what’s coming. “You can supervise.”

  I look back across the shop and catch Roy’s eye. “Don’t call Abby,” I rush out. “Don’t bring her back here while she’s worried about her friend.”

  “Who should I call?” he asks. “Nadia?” Roy holds the phone at the desk, clueless as to what to do with it. “Who should I call?”

  “Um… Maybe Nixon? Or Luc…” I try to slow Mitchell’s strides. “Call Nixon!” I decide. “He’ll help.”

  “On it.”

  “You don’t have to call anyone.” Mitchell grabs the doorhandle. “I’ve got my shit on lock. I promise.”

  The second the door is open and nothing stands between Mitchell and James, James storms forward and forces this to be something it doesn’t need to be.

  “You need to stop.” Mitchell keeps his cool but holds his ground, too. He releases my hand and gently places his palms on James’ chest to force a little space. “You need help, okay? You’re mad at the world for what happened to Cady, but the way you’re handling it isn’t h—”

  “I’m not mad at the world, asshole. I’m mad at you!”

  James swings so fast that no
one has time to react. His elbow goes back and clips Marjorie’s shoulder, breaking through her fog so she cries out, then his fist comes forward and crunches Mitchell’s jaw until I hear a pop.

  “Oh shit!” Startled, I jump back in shock, only to move forward again when the force of James’ strike pushes Mitchell off balance and sends him stumbling back.

  I rush forward to intercept James, not because I think I can stop him if he wants to charge, but because I want to protect Abby’s shop.

  It’s strange that my mind immediately jumps from ‘poor Mitch’ to ‘Not the azaleas. Abby worked so hard on those this morning.’

  “Stop!” I grunt when my chest and James’ collide. My lungs empty, and my brain rattles for a moment from the force of our impact. But for as long as Mitchell’s hands are holding his jaw, and not up to fight off an attack, I remain in place.

  “You need to leave!” I shout over the sounds of Roy’s panicked “Help!” on the phone, and over Marjorie’s cries of despair.

  People in the street look over at the ruckus—Arlo’s startled eyes meet mine from across the road, and a couple doors up from her, Jonah, the owner of the local supermarket, peeks out at our confrontation.

  “You’re the reason my daughter is dead!” James shouts at Mitchell. “You are the reason! And you don’t care.” His voice cracks with heartbreak, instantly washing away my anger.

  He’s just a father, just a guy deeply entrenched in guilt.

  “She’d be five today.” Heavy tears roll along his aged face. Stubble coats his jaw, unkempt and patchy, and red lines flash like neon signs in the whites of his eyes. “She’s still a baby, but a big girl too,” he sobs. “You don’t even care!”

  “I care.” Mitchell’s voice is husky and pain-filled. He stands at my back, one hand swiping over his bleeding lip, the other on my hip. And still, he remains calm. So… un-Mitchell-like. “I care. More than you know.” His hand grows tighter on my hip.

  He’s trying to move me, but I stand my ground and don’t budge.

  “I dream of her,” Mitchell continues. “In my dreams, Cady is sweet and silly. She runs around with a stuffed teddy.”

  “Bunny,” James cries. “She had a stuffed bunny.”

  Swallowing, Mitchell nods and looks straight into James’ eyes. “I can see the bunny. In my dreams, she’s happy and wild, but then in the moments before I wake, she’s…” He sighs. “She’s not okay. I won’t ever know the silly Cady. I only know the hurt girl, the broken one, and that breaks my heart. But I won’t ever pretend to think my grief or sleeplessness trumps yours.”

  “Marjorie says Cady was alive when she gave her to you,” James accuses.

  I glance to Marjorie, just as Mitchell does, and see her flooded eyes.

  “They’re saying this was our fault,” James cries. “A fire that started with our toaster.”

  “I don’t…” Mitchell shakes his head. “I don’t know about the investigation. I haven’t asked.”

  “Because you don’t care!”

  “Because I care too much,” Mitchell counters calmly. “Because laying blame won’t help me. Just like it hasn’t helped you.”

  “Don’t tell me what will help!” James shoves again as a new wash of rage overcomes him. He shoves Mitchell’s shoulder, but because I’m caught between the two, I catch at least half of James’ hand. “Cady was alive when Marjorie gave her to you. She handed over my baby girl, and she was alive! You killed her.”

  “She was gone!” Mitchell insists. “It doesn’t bring me pleasure to say that, but it’s the truth. So now you need to work out how you’ll cope with this new reality. You need help, and coming here to hit me isn’t what’s going to help.”

  “It will help!”

  James lifts his fist once more, cocks it back so fast that I only have time to scrunch my eyes closed and grit my teeth to await the hit. It’s coming, I’m certain, and maybe this time, it’ll be my jaw that crunches to the side.

  But then the sound of skin slapping against skin reaches my ears.

  I open my eyes to find Riley—the same Checkmate guy who helped me in my home—holding James’ wrist in a tight grip.

  My heart and breath release in one, because I’d forgotten that Abby’s shop is as wired up as my home—more so, really, considering Abby isn’t switching cameras off whenever she wants her intruder to have free run of the kitchen.

  Riley swings James around so they stand toe to toe, bared teeth, and strength against strength. Except Riley is stronger, more determined to stop an attack, and James is merely a man, a father, with half a heart.

  “Back up,” Riley snarls. “These entire premises are secured, the cop-shop is wired in, and they already saw your first hit. Wanna make it two, and double your sentence?”

  “I’m not pressing charges,” Mitchell says clearly. “But you need to remove him from my sister’s shop.” He looks to James. “Perhaps it would be best if you guys had a clean break. Go away. Be somewhere else, but be together. This town is small, and the memories are going to continue to hurt you if you pass the same homes, the same stores, the same schools every day.”

  “That’d be good for you, huh? We leave, you get to be happy with her, and Cady is buried and gone. Out of sight, out of mind.”

  “Cady will always be in my head!” Mitchell snaps. His temper is fraying. His patience is thinning. “She is in my dreams every fucking night! I love her like I love my family, and I’m sorry that she didn’t make it. Truly I am, but you’re killing us all with your misplaced anger! You’re killing yourself. Don’t you feel your heart right now? You don’t feel your blood pressure hurtling you toward a heart attack? The blood vessels in your eyes have already burst. You’re demanding retribution, but no matter what, your daughter is gone. There’s nothing any of us can do to change that, so now you get to choose what you do with the time you have left. Is this what she’d want? Is this the father she knew?”

  “Don’t speak to me like you know us,” James shouts. “Don’t act like you know what Cady would want.”

  “I know she’d want you to not hurt so fucking bad! I know she’d want you to be happy.”

  “I know she’d want the world to know the truth!” he shoots back. “She’d hate that she missed out on everything, and her murderer is living his fucking life, kissing women in windows and acting like his actions don’t hurt anyone else.”

  “Murderer?” Mitchell balks. “Are you serious?”

  James backs up, instead of pushing forward at Mitchell’s rage, and stomps on Riley’s feet as he moves. “Get out of the way!” he snaps. His face is a furious red, his eyes growing stormier and stormier with every word spoken. “Move the fuck out of the way!” He shoves Riley, then snags Marjorie’s arm in his hand so hard that she cries out.

  That guy from earlier, the one who walked by the window with a sly grin and low hat, now stands close by, but his grin is long gone. He must’ve circled the block, maybe he overheard the shouting, but he stands his ground now, barely moving when James slams his shoulder as they pass.

  The boy—the guy, the man—grunts when he and James collide, and then he brings his eyes to mine. “The roses, miss.”

  “What?” I try to step forward, but Mitchell’s hands pull me back. “What did you say?”

  “The roses,” the Yankees fan repeats. “Not from him,” he nods toward Mitchell, then tilts his head toward the retreating couple. “Her.”

  “What?” Mitchell’s brain computes faster than mine, his synapses firing off quickly as he surges past Riley and toward the stranger. “What did you just say?”

  “Wait.” I grab Mitchell’s hand as James and Marjorie climb into their car and start the engine with a roar. “The roses?” I look between the men. Then stop on Mitchell. “The roses you gave me?”

  “I never gave you flowers,” Mitchell answers quietly. “Ever.”

  “Yes, you did. You sent several bunches.”

  “No.” He takes another step forward. “I didn�
��t, because I’m a shitty boyfriend.”

  “But…” I see it in my head, that morning I awoke to a rose on my pillow. Those feelings I felt, the love I had for this man I was certain I could not love. “Yes, you did.”

  Before Mitchell can argue back, a booming thud at the end of the street brings us around. Squealing tires and shouting voices. Crumbling bricks fall from the building, and smoke billows from beneath James’ crumpled hood.

  “Shit,” Mitchell hisses.

  24

  James

  Why Does It Hurt So Much?

  “She was alive.” Marjorie rocks back and forth in the passenger seat. “Cady was alive.”

  “I know!” I back out of the parking space a few yards away from where everyone else stands in front of the flower shop. My blood runs hot, and my hands shake so much that I have to remove them from the steering wheel, clasp them together, and steer for a moment with my knees.

  “It was a toaster,” Marjorie rambles. “Not our fault. Just a toaster.”

  “I won’t back down on this.” Placing one hand back on the steering wheel, I use the other to change gears, and then to swipe the tears from my eyes to clear my vision. “My baby won’t have died in vain.”

  “Such pretty flowers,” Marjorie hushes. “Pretty flowers. She was alive.”

  “It’s okay. I believe you.” My heart aches—from rapidly racing blood, but also from loss so profound, I’m not sure I can go on. “I believe you.”

  “I didn’t mean for her to die,” Marjorie cries. “It was an accident. He was supposed to fix it.”

  Stunned, I shoot a glance across to my wife as she holds her seatbelt so tight, her knuckles are white, but the clip is not yet secure. She bounces in the seat, looks around at the road, me, the ceiling.

  “What did you say, Marjie?”

  “Accident. Such pretty flowers.” She turns in the seat and glances back down the street. “I took nice flowers to Cady. Then I took nice flowers to the lady.”