Chapter 12: Stephen - Reckless Love

By the fourth night, we’ve established a worrying routine. Once Kiara and her team leave the estate, Landon and I raid the fridge and freezer for whatever we can find to bake or cook. Cookies. A banana cake. Spaghetti and meatballs from scratch. Basic stuff, but he seems thrilled with each process from start to finish.

While we’re doing that, Ava sits on the couch, reading one of her romance novels, occasionally setting it down to watch us or participate in whatever conversation Landon and I are having.

As soon as we have a finished product, the three of us eat dinner at the small table, and Landon regales the two of us with all the exciting things that happened at school. I’ve taken a page from my parents’ book, and I ask him for the best moment of his day. It’s a remarkably good way to get him talking, which often leads to anything that didn’t go well that day.

Ava then fills me in on Bellerive’s gossip and whatever plot twist has occurred in the book she’s reading. If Landon wasn’t sitting at the table with us, if that big rock wasn’t on her finger, it would be like time had been erased.

Or maybe, more accurately, like life swerved onto the path of “what could have been,” but I can’t let myself consider that idea too much or too long. What-ifs and if-onlys are fruitless branches that’ll merely rot with unhappiness.

After we eat, I do all my security checks around the property and in the house while Ava spends time with Landon. Last night, she taught him how to play checkers, and my fucking heart almost burst out of my chest to see the two of them bent over the board. A flood of bittersweet emotion.

When we were younger, Ava’s certainty she’d be child free made sense, even though I wanted them and wished she did too. She didn’t gravitate to kids or babies, and she didn’t appear to have much of a mothering instinct in any environment.

Landon has unlocked some secret door. She’s amazing with him. Now, I’m wondering why she’s only had one. How much she loves him and being a mom is obvious, but I can’t ask her.

The idea of her and Raul together in any way makes me want to punch something until my knuckles are bloody, black and blue, and that physical pain is all I can feel. That’s how intensely I’m starting to wish things were different. I’d welcome the physical pain if it dulled the sharp edges of emotional turmoil.

Years ago, I never cared if she was with someone else. I mean, I didn’t like it, but I was confident that no matter who she was with, she’d come back to me eventually. Anyone else was a blip, as insignificant as stubbing a toe. Her pattern was so well established, it was comical when she tried to make me jealous. Do your worst, Ava, I used to think. You’ll be back in my bed by the end of the week. Giving her that sexual freedom made me feel better about how early our relationship started and eased my guilt about my desire to keep her mine in all the ways that truly mattered.

I hate that she’s with Raul. That he’s her husband, a title I wanted so fucking badly and that my heart thought would be mine. The fact that I have to keep reminding myself he exists to avoid doing something stupid, something familiar, causes my stomach to sour even more.

She’s married. She’s married. She’s married. She chose this life. With him.

She wanted this house, her successful company, and a man like Raul. That’s the truth.

Before I see her, I hear the creak of the stairs, and I steel myself to tell her no. The longer I let myself soak in her undivided attention, the worse it’ll be when her husband returns. This pattern, these moments in the house, are fleeting. Getting close to her changes nothing. She wanted the life. She’s not leaving him even if she still wants to fuck me.

Maybe their marriage allows that. I’m not asking. Married women aren’t for me. Never have been. Never will be.

Even if I changed my mind, she’s my employer, and her husband is an asshole. Messy. Really fucking messy.

“Can you teach me to play chess?” she asks as she descends the stairs, her hand trailing along the ornate railing.

“That’s what you want to do tonight?” My resolve evaporates at the mere sight of her. I’m so fucking doomed. Where she’s concerned, my willpower is beyond repair. The scraps she feeds me have always been better than someone else’s five-star meal.

“My parents didn’t play games with us. Sometimes Nathaniel or Sawyer would, but it wasn’t something we did a lot. It was fun trying to teach Landon how to play checkers yesterday.”

“I would have thought you’d find it frustrating.” I take the security unit off the wall and follow her into the main living room.

She laughs and then throws me a grin over her shoulder. God, she’s beautiful.

“Are you trying to say I don’t have any patience?”

“Never used to,” I say.

“Surprised me too,” she admits. “Honestly, that’s been the whole thing about being a mom, though. I still don’t love other people’s kids, but I can’t believe how much I love my own.” She presses a palm to her chest. “It’s unreal.”

The chessboard is already out, but it’s not set up. I guess she knew I’d say yes. A foregone conclusion.

“You’re a good mom.” My voice is gruff.

We’re at the table, and she steps close to me. Vanilla and lilies waft toward me, and I recognize the Reckless scent from the hours I’ve spent in the building. But it’s never smelled as good as it does right now.

“You think I’m a good mom?” she whispers.

“You must know you are.”

“No one’s ever told me.”

The fact that her husband, who seems to have left most of the child raising to her, has never given her a pat on the back—at the very least—for her efforts makes my throat tight with emotion. Even putting her body through pregnancy and childbirth to have my child would have made me endlessly grateful. I’d have told her every day, every chance I could.

“Having Landon has made me realize my mom wasn’t so great.” She plucks a chess piece from the table, toying with it. “And I feel bad for thinking that because I know parenting is not easy. That it’s probably easier to fuck up than it is to get it right. Five kids—what are the chances you make the right calls for all of them? Any of them?”

“Your mom is a complicated woman,” I say. “It doesn’t seem like you’re alone in thinking she could have been better.” I try to keep my voice gentle.

“I’m the only one still speaking to her,” she admits, even though I already know.

“She’s not sick anymore?”

“Her kidneys are currently functioning properly. The chemo-type treatment they did seems to have kicked them back into working right. So she doesn’t need my kidney. Nathaniel says he wouldn’t have given her his, but I don’t know… He’s got those martyr tendencies.”

“Why are you close with Celia?” That’s been the biggest surprise since my return.

“We’re not that close, not really. We’re just not estranged.” She runs her fingers along her forehead, clearly thinking. “I never thought I’d be the last one standing. Mom and I fought a lot when I was younger.” She gives me a wry smile. “Which you know.”

“Even if you’re not close, you’re definitely closer.”

“She was there for me when I really needed someone,” she says. “My brothers and sisters were all busy leading their own lives, and I…” She shakes her head. “Maybe she was there for me in case she needed a kidney. Maybe she was there for me because she’s my mother and she loves me. I’ve chosen to believe the second version.”

“Is she a good grandmother?” I ask.

“When Landon was a baby, yes. Not as much now that he can walk and talk and have opinions. No storybook grandparents on my side. My dad’s obsessed with the WHL team, and I barely see him.” She lets out another laugh that’s almost bitter. “Raul’s parents are dead, so Landon doesn’t really have any grandparents who are involved in his life.”

When she looks up and we make eye contact, I want to ask why the hell she married him, had a kid with him. She doesn’t seem happy. But I know why. I know why.

“I’ll set up the board,” I say, stepping back and sliding into my chair, grabbing a handful of pieces and slotting them into place.

Ava sits across from me and mirrors how I set up the board. To avoid talking about anything personal, I go through the object of the game and then what each chess piece can and can’t do.

Once we’ve played one game in which I help her a lot with moves and strategy, Ava settles in on the second game and starts to move the pieces with more confidence.

“Has your sister said anything about what’s happening at The Nile?” she asks, sneaking a glance at me before resuming her calculations, lifting pieces and trying moves before putting them back.

“We don’t talk about it,” I say, which isn’t strictly true. I know the unionization vote is coming up soon, that my time in this house is likely coming to an end. We do dance around what we’re both doing and the impact on each other, but I don’t like having information Ava doesn’t.

Raul doesn’t seem to tell Ava anything. Maybe they’ve spoken on the phone or texted while he’s been gone, but I haven’t seen any evidence of communication. They live in the same house, but their lives aren’t connected. Ava used to love the appearance of independence, even as she spent a lot of her free time in my apartment. How much she seemed to not just want me but also my company was what made me believe we had something real.

“You’re happy with Reckless?” I ask. “Vanessa tells me that the word on the street is that you’re a good boss.”

“Oh my god,” Ava says, her palm pressing into her chest again. “Your sister said that?”

“She did.” I consider my next move and avoid eye contact. How does no one in Ava’s inner circle realize how much she craves validation? Whether it’s because she didn’t get it from her parents or she was constantly in low- or high-level conflict with her family, she’s always needed to be told when she was doing well at something. Assuming she knows her strengths is where people get her wrong.

Ava lets out a deep sigh, and I sneak a glance at her before moving one of my pawns. Criminal how pretty she is.

“I love my company,” she says, “but I don’t know if I love my role. God, I haven’t told anyone that.”

“You don’t love being in charge? Doesn’t seem like you.”

She lets out a light laugh and gathers her thick, dark hair in her hands before letting it fall, cascading past her shoulders again. “The things I love being in charge of, I really love. Scent testing and creation or approval, branding, and employee satisfaction.”

“Employee satisfaction would look like what?”

“Celebrating milestones and successes.”

“You always did love planning and hosting a party.”

“I know, right?” She throws a hand in my direction. “You understand.”

“So why don’t you just delegate the parts you don’t like? You are the big boss.”

“That’s your advice from one big boss to another?” She eyes me playfully from across the table.

“It is.”

The light in her blue eyes dims slightly, and she refocuses on the board. “I don’t know.”

“What don’t you know?”

“I had a lot of failed ideas. Start-ups that never quite started up. And I finally have something that’s successful. People are buying Reckless perfumes, and they like them. I don’t know why this worked, or maybe, I guess, I’m afraid to change anything in case it doesn’t work anymore.”

She moves her queen, and I could take it, but I pretend I don’t see the opportunity. This conversation is how things used to be between us when we were alone—easy, open, as though there aren’t ten suitcases of emotional baggage waiting to be unpacked.

“If reorganizing responsibilities would make you happier at your job, with the company, that seems worth it to me.”

“Reckless employs a lot of people who depend on that income. Risks I take don’t just have repercussions for me.”

I lean back in my chair, and I cross my arms. Sometimes, the changes in her surprise me. How good she is at being a mother, and now this—how much she cares about the people in her employ. Ava of six years ago cared mostly about Ava. Or she seemed to.

“You’re surprised.” She says it like a statement.

“Impressed,” I admit, trying to smother the warm glow in my chest.

“You’re impressed by me?” She sits straighter in her chair, almost preening.

“I’m impressed by who you’ve become, yeah.”

“I don’t usually impress people.”

“I think it’s more likely that most people just don’t say it out loud. They forget, or maybe don’t know, how nice it is to hear it.”

“I used to say whatever I thought. No filter.”

“I’m aware,” I say. “You don’t think you do that anymore?”

“Do you think I do?”

I lean forward and slide my own queen into a vulnerable position while I consider what I’ve observed. “For the most part, no, I don’t think you’re like that anymore. What do you think changed?”

“Are you letting me win?” she asks as she takes my queen.

“I’m too competitive for that.”

“Maybe with other people,” she murmurs, “but never with me.”

The reminder to go check all doors and entrances pops up on the security unit, and I realize it’s the middle of the night. “You’re going to be tired again.”

“But now I know how to play chess,” she says, and she flips her watch around on her wrist to check it. “It is late.”

“I’ll walk you to the stairs,” I say, grabbing my suit jacket off the back of the chair, where I left it during dinner.

We amble to the front foyer where the stairs are, and there’s a comfortable silence that settles between us. She rises onto the bottom stair and turns to look at me.

“Oh,” she says, “come here. You’ve got some fluff in your hair.”

With her up a little higher, there’s only a slight height different between us, and she rises on her toes to pluck something from my hair. I don’t see what it is. I’m not even convinced there’s anything, but the close proximity heats the air around us as though we’re in an oven turned to broil. Cool comradery to white-hot passion with the graze of her fingertips.

She releases whatever she’s captured, and then her soft hands cup my cheeks, and her gaze travels from my eyes to my lips. The scent of vanilla and lilies floats around us.

I should step back, but I just want to live in this moment for one more beat, let myself remember what it was like when I could be with her for one more second. My forehead comes to rest against hers, and my hands span her waist. And it’s so good to touch her, to be near her, that my blood is singing in my ears. She’s my passion and my comfort, and I’ve never been able to get enough.

“I’ve missed you,” she whispers. “I’ve missed you so much.”

Her declaration draws me back into myself, reminds me why this shouldn’t happen, can’t happen, and I force myself to take a step back. Her hands fall to her sides, and when I open my eyes, she looks so sad that all I want to do is step closer again.

“You’re married, Mrs. Santos,” I say, my voice firm. “You made a lifelong promise to someone else, and I’m not the man to help you break it.”

A spark of anger lights her eyes, and her old, defiant attitude threatens to surface. “I never asked you to, did I?”

“Not with your words, no.”

She lets out a huff and practically stomps up the stairs.

* * *

Once Datu arrives to take over watch, I climb the stairs to the second story. To get to the wing I’ve been sleeping in, I have to walk past Ava’s bedroom. Ava and Raul’s bedroom.

Every night that I’ve gone past, I’ve tried not to think about her in there, about how Raul gets to be the one who sleeps next to her.

But tonight, I stop at the door, and I press my palm to the hardwood. These last few days have proven that the connection, at least on my part, is just as strong as it ever was. Despite the eight years between us and the social class divide, I understand her on a fundamental level that hasn’t changed, even if she has.

If I went in right now, despite what she said on the stairs, I know she’d welcome me. That we’d pull the pin to toss a grenade into the lives we’ve been living for the last six years. I should hate the idea, want to run from it. Instead, it takes a monumental effort to draw my hand down the wood and off her door.

No matter how much I want her, I can’t go back to being a secret, to being something shameful, and if I open the door, that’s the only fate that awaits me. So, I head to my own room in another part of the mansion, and I hope I can resist ruining my life for one more taste of Ava Tucker.