Page 11 of Spicy Nick

“Good manners are important,” I tell Cole. “But now let’s go find Mommy, before she starts to wonder where we are.”

Santa-jack chuckles in response. “Oh, count on it. She’s already doing that,” he says confidently.

I shoot him a quelling glance. “Excuse me?”

“Well, don’t you think so? You’re here for the flight that just landed, yeah? The one from LA? Apparently it got in early. Unexpected tail winds, or something. I’m surprised she didn’t call to let you know.”

“There’s not a lot of cell service in the terminal,” I say—speaking from experience. I take hold of Cole’s hand and say again, “Say goodbye to Santa, Cole, and let’s go. Mommy’s waiting.”

“But I want to buy her flowers,” Cole insists. Pointing at a large bouquet of Peace roses he adds, “Those ones. They’re her favorite.”

Theyareher favorite—he’s not wrong there. Mostly because her stepmother had planted bushes all along the foundation of the house, and Scout always says the fragrance smells like home to her. They’re also not the flowers you typically find for sale in this kind of venue. Odd. “Okay,” I tell him, peeling a few bills off the wad in my pocket and handing the money to Santa. “Good idea. But now we’ll have to run. So, let’s go!”

“Via con Dios!” Santa calls as we hurry away. “And Merry Christmas!”

Inside the terminal, I spot Scout instantly. She already has her bags piled on the floor beside her—lending credence to Santa-dude’s assertion that she got in earlier than expected. Which was no more than a lucky guess on his part since he had had no reason to know what flight we were meeting. But I have no time to wonder about that. Something about the way Scout’s standing there—with an uncharacteristic slump to her shoulders and an anxious, lost expression as she stares at her phone—pierces my soul.

An instant later, Cole also catches sight of his mom. He wrenches free of my hand once again; this time I let him go. But then he launches himself at his mother shouting, “Mommy, Mommy, Mommy!” enthusiastically as he slams into her legs—so hard he almost knocks her off her feet. And I have to leap into action, to avert disaster.

“Careful!” I caution as I grab hold of Scout’s elbow, to steady her.

“Nick,” she gasps softly, staring at me with luminous, tear-filled eyes.

I lean in close and whisper, “He’s got the right idea. I kinda want to jump you right now, too.”

Normally, saying something like that will win me a heated grin, or a sexy response. Not today. Instead, she throws herselfinto my arms, grabbing for Cole at the same time, laughing, crying, trying to kiss us—everything at once.

“We got you flowers,” Cole announces, having squirmed free of his mother’s grip. “Look!”

Scout pulls away at that, far enough to see the battered and bruised bouquet that had gotten crushed between us. “Roses,” she whispers in what sounds like disbelief.

“There was a guy selling ’em outside…” I start to explain.

She rolls her eyes. “Of course, there was.”

“…and Cole insisted we stop. That’s why we were late.” I wince a little when I hear what I’ve said. “Sorry. Guess I coulda phrased that more romantically, huh?”

But Scout shakes her head. “It’s fine, it’s fine. It’s all good.”

“Doesn’t look like it,” I say as I gather her into my arms once again. “You’re crying; what’s wrong?”

“Not a thing,” she insists, stretching up onto her toes to press a soft kiss against my lips. “Everything’s absolutely perfect now. I’m home.”

“Yeah, you are,” I agree, playing along, instead of saying what’s really on my mind: If everything’s so perfect, then why are you trembling so hard? Why are your eyes still swimming with tears?And—not that I’m complaining, or anything like it—but why are you still hanging on so tight, clinging to me like you’re afraid to let go?

All questions that one can’t really demand answers to in the midst of a crowded, pre-holiday airport. So, “C’mon. Let’s get you home,” I say instead.

I’m only partially mollified when Scout leans against me for a moment, closes her eyes and say softly. “Yes, let’s do that. Please.”

So,here’s something else that’s changed in the past few years. My new car—the one we bought after the accident—is an automatic. It was necessary in the short run. And, in the long run, it just seems all-around easier.

I still believe that driving stick’s a skill everyone should have, at least in theory. In reality, however, I was low-key relieved to have an automatic car for Kate to practice on when she was learning to drive.

But, all that aside, what I’m appreciating about it the most right now, is that it lets me hold Scout’s hand the whole way home.

Despite the fact that she’s still clutching me with an iron grip, we don’t talk much as I navigate us over the winding roads. Which, given that Cole has, predictably fallen asleep, seems a lost opportunity for the two of us to clear the air. But Scout seems preoccupied and ill at ease.

And as for me? Well, I’ve gotten sidetracked. My mind is fully taken up with trying to decide whether it even makes sense to keep my Targa. Shouldn’t I be trading it in for an even more family-friendly model?

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