Chapter 3: Ava - Reckless Love

“Owen said he’d be at the house in ten minutes,” I say to Raul when he comes into the kitchen the next morning.

“Let me know how it goes.” He scoops up the breakfast burrito our personal chef made earlier and left on a warming plate. The other meals for the day for the three of us are already in the fridge just waiting to be reheated. According to Raul, paying for the chef to stay here all day is a waste of money. For someone so rich, he can be pretty cheap.

“You’re not staying?”

“No need,” he says. “Owen’s got a team on me already. You’re meeting whoever he’s put in charge of your security and Landon’s security.”

“You don’t want to be here for that? You don’t care?”

He gives me a look as though I’m being “too much” and opens his breakfast wrap to take a bite. “Of course I care. But it’s not worth my time. Whoever Owen’s given this to is just going to go through your weekly routine. Come up with a strategy and the number of people needed to keep you both safe. I’ve got shit to do. The Bellerive branch of my company is in crisis. You don’t really expect me to stay, do you?”

“No.” I stare at what’s left of the bottle of scotch that’s still on the kitchen counter. No one has put it away yet. “No,” I say again, though I really mean “yes.”

Historically, fights never end well for me. Whenever he’s losing, he’ll threaten to pause the algorithm on The Nile, which pushes my perfume company higher in the rankings. Without that, I’m not sure my company could survive. To get what I want, I end up on my knees, letting him feel like a man, so the argument can end and he doesn’t tank the one accomplishment I’m proud of.

Unlike my other business ideas that never lifted off, I have a lot of employees working for me now. If Reckless went under, so many people, so many families in Bellerive would hate me. The executives Raul has found for me wouldn’t care, not really—they’d locate another job somewhere. A lot of them have already come and gone in the five years I’ve been in business.

The workers on the factory floor, though, the ones who are being paid a “fair” wage at my siblings’ insistence—even though Raul said I was being too generous—wouldn’t be able to find something of equal pay in this country. Reckless, my perfumery, flopping might cost my working-class employees a house or a car or the ability to raise their children out of poverty. It’s that last one that stops my heart every time I consider it. The way I love my son is mind-blowing. Makes me understand a little better how Gage changed so much once his daughter, Nova, appeared. Raul and I don’t have to worry about money, but I’ve spent enough time with people who do, heard enough from them to know, if not understand, the impact I have on their lives and their futures. That matters to me more than I ever would have thought.

Thinking about how my influence helps the working class on the island almost cracks open the door to a place I never go, and I manage to slam it shut before old memories creep in. That door leads to sleepless nights and endless regrets. I understand enough about Bellerive’s levels of poverty, and I don’t need to consider where or from whom I gained that knowledge.

Landon’s feet slap against the designer tile floor as he runs through our mansion from the stairs of his second-story bedroom toward us. I swear, an elephant would be quieter.

“Ah,” Raul says with a grin as Landon storms in, “here’s my boy!”

I crouch down, and Landon rushes into my embrace, little arms flinging around my neck with a squeal of delight. When I rise up with him on my hip, he cuddles in close, head on my shoulder. My mother tells me these moments will become more and more fleeting as he gets older. I don’t remember any with her. An ache always spreads across my chest whenever I think of that conversation. I live for these minutes with him, where he still craves this close connection.

“Daddy’s still here?” he asks.

“Daddy’s just leaving,” Raul says, ruffling Landon’s hair. “I’ll see you at dinner tonight.” He crumples the tinfoil from his sandwich and sets it on the counter, grabbing the coffee that was prepared and left waiting in an insulated mug before making his way out of the kitchen. Without another word to me, he leaves.

“What do you want to do today?” I ask Landon when we hear the front door close.

“Mini sticks,” he says, still snuggled close.

“At Aunt Sawyer and Uncle Logan’s house? I can call and ask. They might be busy. What else?”

“Palace park,” he says, and then he seems to remember something. He pops his head up to look at me. “You don’t work today?”

“I took this week off to spend it with you, since you go to school next week. No nanny all week.” I tickle his belly, and he giggles.

The doorbell reverberates throughout the house, and Landon wiggles to get down.

“I’ll get it,” he shouts as he zooms off.

“The maid will get it,” I call after him, wandering toward the front door, sure it’ll be Owen with whoever he’s assigned to watch over us.

The door opens, and the recognizable murmur of the maid and my son is a comfort.

Then a familiar baritone echoes through the expansive front foyer in response, and I stop in my tracks, unable to turn the last corner, which will put me in sight of the person who’s arrived. When I draw in a breath, it feels like my lungs rattle.

Because god help me, I know who it is.

My hand shakes, and I press it against the wall, willing it to stop. When that doesn’t seem to help, I rotate so my back is against the edge of the corner. My heart beats wildly in my chest with fear, but I’m not sure that’s the right emotion. He must know who he’s come to see, and dread pools in my stomach.

After all this time, I’d convinced myself I’d never see him again. That even if I did, seeing him wouldn’t matter, wouldn’t faze me.

If just the sound of his voice is this destabilizing, I’m in serious fucking trouble. I stare at my shaking hand. Fuck.

“You must be Landon,” he says, and I picture him crouched in front of my son. He always liked kids, so he’s probably smiling, showing a side of himself he rarely gives to adults.

The idea of my two worlds meeting is enough to make my knees threaten to buckle.

“I’m Landon!” my son agrees. “My mom’s coming.”

“Where’s your dad?”

“At work. He works a lot.”

“Come in,” the maid says. “Ms. Tucker must be delayed.”

“I’m here,” I say, forcing myself to have the courage to round the corner. I step out, still holding onto the wall, and almost immediately, I wish I’d stayed hidden. Given the choice, I might hide from him forever. “Stephen.” I breathe out his name.

“Mrs. Santos,” he says with a sharp nod.

His posture is stiff, which only makes him seem taller in his expertly tailored suit. There’s still a substantial bit of space between us because the front foyer, much like the rest of our residence, has more room than anyone would need. He walks toward me, and instinctively, I back up.

Landon stares up at Stephen while they come closer as though he’s watching a superhero moment in real life. Stephen’s always had that kind of presence, and it’s part of what drew me to him when I was a teenager. So tall. So broad. A dark-haired, brown-eyed Thor who used to be able to steal my breath with a glance. From the first time he pulled me over for speeding and then let me off with a warning, I knew he’d be mine. He took a bit of convincing, but once he was in, he never said no to me again. About anything.

When he gets close enough and our gazes connect, I don’t know why I never realized that his golden-brown eyes are the same shade as my favorite scotch.

Suddenly, I’m thirsty.

“Owen?” I manage to get the word out around the lump in my throat.

“He’s being well paid elsewhere, so I’ve been given the lead on the Santos file.” He tips his head toward the interior of the house. “Is there somewhere we can sit?”

Instead of listening, I’ve been stuck on the movement of his lips, and now I’m cataloging his face, noticing the lines at the edges of his eyes, the tiny scars along one cheek. The urge to run my thumb across them, ask him for their story is so strong that I inch closer, rise a little on my toes.

“This way,” the maid says.

I startle at her voice and step back from Stephen.

She throws me a concerned look as she leads Stephen into the main living room with Landon still trailing them, in awe.

She has every right to be concerned. My body has been taken over by aliens, and those aliens are rioting. Seeing him again has thrown me so off balance that I almost can’t breathe. But watching him walk away for a moment, I notice a small hitch in his step, which never used to be there.

Scars on his face. An imperfection in his step. Where the hell has he been for the last six years? Has he been working for Owen all this time?

Rage replaces whatever I was feeling two seconds ago as I click my heels across the tiled floor behind them. He owes me answers. I deserve answers.

Showing up out of the blue like this is bullshit. He doesn’t get to ghost me and then appear six years later on my doorstep, calling me Mrs. Santos like his tongue didn’t map every inch of my body for years.

“What are you doing here?” I ask when I finally get to the living room and notice that the maid has left with Landon.

“I thought that was obvious,” he says, giving me a mild look. “I work with Owen. I’m assigned to organize protection for you and your son.”

“You know that’s not what I mean.”

He doesn’t say anything, merely opens a file folder on the coffee table and takes a pen out of the bag I didn’t see him carrying. Doesn’t everyone use a tablet or a laptop now? Who still uses a pen and paper? The pen seems almost comically tiny in his hand. He clicks it open and then glances at me. “I have some basic procedural questions.”

Instead of sitting, I cross my arms and glare at him. I hate how my heart throbs, as though the sight of him is physically strenuous. Like I’m in the middle of a marathon, and I have no idea where the finish line is. I am not a marathon runner.

“You’re thirty-two?” He draws his index finger across the page, and I remember the way that same finger would travel down my body, closer and closer to where I wanted it, where I needed it.

“And you’re forty,” I say. “We know each other.”

“Your son,” he says, ignoring me. “Is five? And his father is…” He glances up at me, and there’s a challenge in his eyes.

Fuck him.

“Fifty-five, but I’m sure that’s in your notes.”

“Yes. Is the boy biologically his?”

“Of course he is,” I grit out.

“Looking at the boy’s birthday—”

“You know what I was like,” I say, cutting him off. If he’d stuck around, we could have had this conversation then, but he didn’t. He doesn’t get to show up and grill me like he has any interest in my life.

“Those Tucker genes are strong,” he says, forearms braced on his knees. “He looks a lot like you. Like Nathaniel. Tall for his age, though.”

“His father is tall,” I say. “What does this have to do with our protection?”

“If I’m going to protect you, I need to understand who I’m protecting.”

“The wife and son of Raul Santos,” I say, as though that’s some kind of accomplishment. It’s not, and I know it.

“Hmm,” he says, and he checks off something on his sheet.

“If you don’t believe me, there’s a DNA test.” At the time, the results shattered me.

This hard exterior he’s giving me is causing my palms to sweat. Whenever we’d argue, he’d close off like this, but I always knew he’d give in. That at some point, he’d look at me and decide whatever we were fighting about wasn’t worth losing me or not having me. Maybe one hour or a few hours or two days, but not six fucking years.

I scan his fingers for a wedding ring, and the knot inside me loosens slightly when I see that his hands are bare.

“I don’t think you should be in charge of my safety,” I say.

“Why’s that?” he asks. “You don’t think I’d protect you with my life?”

My stomach plummets to my feet, and I avert my gaze, hoping he hasn’t seen how hard that question hit. There was a time when he would have done anything to protect me. Broken any rules or laws. Carried me through hell. Suffered any consequence if it meant I was okay. It wasn’t something we talked about, nothing we said, but I knew.

Right now, he doesn’t resemble the guy I left in his apartment six years ago. He looks like Stephen, but he doesn’t feel like him. The impenetrable shell, the one I cracked open years ago, has been sealed up.

“I have no idea if you’d protect me to that extreme,” I say.

“Your husband is paying Owen very well,” Stephen says, “which means I’m being paid very well. Just like everything else on this island, if you spend enough, someone with less will be willing to sacrifice their life for more.”

A sheen comes across my vision, and I turn away, surprised by the urge to cry. I stride toward the kitchen to hide the rush of feeling. So what if it seems like he’s spent the last six years putting his life on the line like it’s nothing to anyone? I shouldn’t care. I can’t care. He left me.

At the kitchen counter with my back to him, I press the heel of my hand into my chest, and I will whatever this feeling is to go away.

Stephen Foster is my past, so distant I barely recall a single detail. I have my company, my son, and my shitty husband. And I’m fine. I’m so fine.

“I’ll need a copy of your schedule,” Stephen says, and his deep voice, detached from his physicality, is no less impactful. I hate the way the sound vibrates through my body, and I want to soak in the sensation, relish that he’s in my world again.

In some ways, it’s worse not to be looking at him when he talks because if I close my eyes, what it was like to have that voice in my ear, urging me to come again for him is right there on the edges of my consciousness.

Oh, god.

My chest heaves at the memory.

“Mrs. Santos?”

But he never called me that. And the reminder of who I’ve become is a bucket of ice-cold water poured over my head. I shiver and turn to face him, crossing my arms. At least there’s more distance between us now that I’m in the kitchen and he’s still in the main living room area, which is better.

Then my mind latches onto something that’ll make this conversation even easier. On the counter, the scotch still hasn’t been put away, and I take down a glass, splash a mouthful into the bottom, and throw it back.

“Still day drinking, I see,” Stephen says, making another note on his paper.

“Fuck you,” I mutter. “Fuck you so hard. You disappear for six years and then you show up here like it’s no big deal?”

“Six years ago, we both made ourselves very clear,” he says, his tone measured. “I didn’t think organizing your protection detail would be a problem.” He peers around the house, an assessment, a challenge. “Looks like you got exactly what you wanted.”

And I’m fucking miserable.

The thought comes so quickly that I don’t have time to hold it back, keep it at bay. Instead, I pour myself another shot and lift it toward my lips, hovering.

“And you?” I ask before tipping back the drink again.

“I got what I needed, which is better, I suppose.” His gaze is shuttered and impossible to read.

I got what I wanted, but it turns out it was nothing like what I needed. Must be nice to have gotten life right. Seems I’m always fucking it up, even when I try to play by the rules.

“Since you don’t have your schedule handy to go through,” Stephen says, rising from his seat, “and appear unwilling to be helpful, I’ll leave.” He comes to the kitchen island and slides a card onto it. “My number for you to text me your routine and your son’s. I’ll have two agents stationed here, at the house, at all times starting today. Another two will oversee your person and your son when you leave the property. We’ll need to know where you’ll be throughout each day to make sure we have proper emergency plans in place.”

“You don’t really think one of Raul’s workers would come after us?”

“People do all kinds of things when you threaten their way of life. Money is a powerful motivator.”

“The only person who’s out of money if they unionize is my husband,” I say with a huff.

Stephen releases a deep sigh, clearly frustrated, and starts to walk toward the front entrance.

“Just say it,” I call after him.

He turns on his heel and seems to be assessing me. “Why do you think they want to unionize, Av—Mrs. Santos?”

“Because they like creating problems.” It’s a disingenuous response, but I’m still mad that he’s just turned up here as though he didn’t disappear on me six years ago. That he’s acting like we don’t know each other intimately. That I couldn’t draw every ripple and indent of his skin from memory. That I can’t circle each physical change in him as though I’m circling them on my own body.

Stephen shakes his head and turns back around, unwilling to engage.

My response let him down, and rather than feeling gratified, I say, “Okay, fine. Unions usually form because something seems unfair or that they aren’t being listened to.”

“Which of those do you think applies to The Nile?”

Both. Of course it’s both. Raul doesn’t have a lot of time or empathy for anyone, which suited me fine when we first got together. I was wrung out, and I didn’t need a partner who wanted to know me. Those “me first” qualities probably don’t make him a very good boss, just like they make him a terrible lover and husband and father.

Instead of telling him all this, I stare at Stephen. Regret hits me, punch after punch, and I grip the edge of the island in an effort to stay away from him. There’s always been something inside me that wanted Stephen more than was rational or practical. Any time I strayed from him or he strayed from me, I’d end up lighting my life on fire or throwing a grenade into his to get us back in the same bed.

I’ve never had to, never wanted to fight our connection. From the minute he sidled up to the driver’s door to scold me for speeding, I’ve been certain he was meant to be mine. No matter what happened between us, that certainty never wavered.

“I’m glad you’re alive,” I say.

He purses his full lips and turns toward the front foyer again, each step hitched with the tiniest hesitation.

And I wonder if it’s as painful for him to walk away as it is for me to watch.