“Mother, Nana, this is Tate. I thought it was past time you met.”
She turned to him, relieved to find he had already slipped on his mask. Zola probably wouldn’t approve. She likely wouldn’t approve of his plan for her unbinding either, or the poker or the illegal street racing, the pool hustles, the drinking bets with strangers . . . but some things were not for therapy.Somethings were just for them. He had already slipped on his Front of House mask, warm and inviting, and she knew his tone would be as light and musical as it had been in the Clover dining room.
He could spiral clean later. Right now, he needed to survive this.
Silva hooked her pinky around his, making it clear to her mother and grandmother what this was.
“Tate, this is my mother and my grandmother. Like I said. Past time.”
She listened with half an ear for the next hour and a half. He somehow managed to engage her grandmother in a conversation about China patterns, veering seamlessly into moon temple traditions and how much they’d changed. Her grandmother’s eyes had been wide, her ears darkening with the realization that he was Silmë. He was polite. He was charming. He was nothing less than the perfect Elvish suitor, as she had always known he would be, only better now, because this wasn’t one of her silly, unattainable daydreams.
This was real life, on her terms. Tate, exactly as he was. Just Silva. Doing their best.
They got through their entire lunch before Aelin shrieked, pointing wildly at the back door, nearly falling off her chair. It was a strange cat, clearly cornering some small creature on the terrace, undoubtedly Aelin’s chipmunk. Tate was out of his seat before Silva could react, crossing the small room in a single stride, pulling open the door without hesitation. Aelin scrambled after him.
“Away with ya, greedy little beast!”
The cat ran around the house, the chipmunk darted back to Dynah’s drain spout, and Aelin shrieked like a storm goddess, waving her fists in the direction of the stray.
“This is the man you worked for,” her mother gritted out, her voice tightly controlled. “Before. You said . . . you said he’s Silmë? And he owns a restaurant?”
Silva could tell by the way she held her eyes, fixed on the tablecloth, her jaw tight, that her mother wasn’t happy. Wasn’t happy . . . but was searching for something to latch onto. Now that things were different. Now that they knew she would leave. Now that they understood her life was hers to live.
“Yes. And Itriedto be happy without him, Mother. And you see how that ended.”
“And he’s her. . .” Her mother trailed off, and Silva nodded.
It was all they needed to know.
“Darling,” her grandmother blurted. “He-hecould give you another.”
They all turned, watching Tate swing Aelin up to sit on his shoulders, reaching the kite she’d gotten stuck on the edge of the roof the previous night. Her mother’s eyes were still tight, and Silva knew she’d never understand, but she was far past the point of caring, and it didn’t matter besides. Dowagers were at the top of the food chain, and her grandmother had spoken.
All she wanted was great-grandchildren in her jubilation years.
“That’s definitely something to think about,” Silva hummed.
After they were alone that night, after Aelin had been read to and kissed and was tucked into her bed, hugging her stuffed rabbit, after he had threatened to simply die of stress that night while he slept and would consider doingexactlythat if “you ever pull a bleedin’ stunt like that again, you little chisler,” Silva curled against him, her head on his chest, listening to his elevated heart rate, still not settled.
It had taken five long years, full of dangerous detours and heartache and learning to be whole . . . but she had gotten everything she wanted. Everything she’d always wanted.
And wasn’t that simply what she deserved?
Tate
Finding a project should have been an easy task.
A project that wasn’t Silva, that wasn’t her home, that wasn’t their daughter. Impossible to consider, as Silva and Aelin were the only things on his mind, and likely would be the only things that occupied it ever again. Finding a project that excited him as much as his old girl had, when he’d first bought the Pixie, was going to be impossible, Tate had determined.
Shona had called him in a panic one afternoon, demanding his help, insisting she was desperate. A calamity in the kitchen, someone out for a wedding, someone else out sick, and now someone in a minor car accident, just enough to keep them all from their shift. She would need to be on the line. He’d packed up Aelin and driven back to Greenbridge Glen, keeping his wee princess on the counter with him while he expoed the dinner rush, calling out orders as she lined them neatly on the counter beside her.
If anything good had come out of the night, it had been reminding Elshona that she needed to hire an executive chef for the restaurant and let go of the reins.
“You can’t do everything, Culchie.You’rein charge. If you’re doing their job, who’s running the place?”
She had scowled. “Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you.” Tate had stared her down until she looked away, nodding after a moment. “I suppose you’re right. I’ll never be able to open her as a chain if I’m stuck here night after night at the ovens.” She’d laughed at the face he’d pulled, clearly her aim. “Thank you for all of your help, Miss Aelin. Don’t let this grouch keep you from having the dessert I put in your bag.”
It had been nice feeling useful. Tate had determinedthatwas his problem. He didn’t need mindless busywork. He didn’t need a soulless project, the way Silva seemed to think he did, something that would keep his hands busy but leave his mind free to spiral into memories and minor offenses, the last thing that would help.
