16. Niles

Chapter sixteen

Niles

T he tension between August and his daughter was masked in a classroom full of students. With only the three of us at the dinner table, static rippled the air. Constance’s smiles vanished. She focused on her plate, eating tiny bites of food between sips of a thickened beverage. A cloud hung over her head.

I cut into a cabbage roll, juices spilling from inside, fragrant steam billowing. “This looks incredible.” The filling consisted of minced pork, carrots, rice, and onions. “Not like the traditional cabbage rolls I’ve had in the past.”

“The Greek version is much better.” August watched as I brought a forkful to my mouth, blew the heat away, and tried it. An array of bold spices danced along my palate. “Oh, wow. That’s good.”

“You sound surprised.”

“No, it’s… Honestly, though. Is there anything you can’t do?”

A lot , Constance signed, and I chuckled.

I tapped her foot under the table. “Be nice.”

August shot his daughter a confused look that morphed into a frown. His pride seemed to prevent him from asking what he missed, but his perturbation glowed.

Instead of promoting what August perceived as petulant behavior, I filled him in. “She claims there’s a lot you can’t do.”

“I see.” He cut into his meal.

The strain between father and daughter brought the four walls of the already tiny cottage closer. “So, what standout Greek Christmas traditions should I know about?” I asked, hoping to stir conversation.

“Food.” August displayed his fork with a meaty cut of cabbage roll skewered on the tines. His smile was back, a faint spark emanating in the dark forest of his irises.

“And?”

August considered as he chewed. “In Greece, the big cities are lit with tens of thousands of lights for the holiday. In the smaller villages, markets sell all kinds of local foods and wares.” He tapped his wine glass. “We’re big fans of wine, in case you didn’t notice my fondness for the beverage.”

“Oh, I noticed. We have that in common.”

“Well, you’d fit in. You won’t find a Greek who doesn’t celebrate the holiday with at least a few bottles.”

Boat decorating , Constance signed, interrupting August’s and my shared moment. It’s more popular than decorating trees.

“Oh really?”

It’s done to honor St. Nicholas because he’s the protector of fishermen and sailors.

“Ah, and Greece is surrounded by water. That makes sense.”

“Constance.” August injected an edge of warning into his daughter’s name. “Could you please—”

She ignored him and continued to sign. Yiayaka and pappoúlsi have a boat. I used to help them decorate it when I visited for the holiday. Mom took me. Did you know, in Greece, you don’t get presents on Christmas day? It sucks. They make you wait until New Year’s Day. There was this one time when—

August smacked the table, leering at his daughter as he silently fumed. “You’re being rude.”

Constance glared right back. How? she signed, but even that simple gesture went over August’s head.

She rolled her eyes and resumed eating, stabbing her food with the fury of a killer out for blood.

August offered a tight, apologetic smile and focused on his meal as well.

Not wanting to come between the feuding pair, I didn’t ask follow-up questions about boats and grandparents, changing the subject, aiming to draw August away from the ledge. “Do you have any siblings?”

“No. Only child.”

I’m an only child, too, except my dad didn’t want me, Constance signed, nose in the air.

I didn’t translate for August and veered in a new direction.

My efforts made little difference. Dinner progressed the same. Every time I initiated a topic of conversation, Constance interjected, smiling and signing, purposefully excluding her father or taking a stab at him when she knew he didn’t understand her nonverbal words.

By dessert, August had retreated into his wine, cheeks flush from either anger or drink. Maybe both. He stopped engaging, and Constance, merrier than ever at winning my attention, took over.

We could play Rossini’s “Overture Barbier de Seville.” It would be so much fun. Do you know it?

“Of course. It’s definitely an option. I’ll have to check the back room and see if we have it.”

Dad might have the score.

“You could ask him.” I eyed August, who was turning a cookie into crumbs instead of eating it.

Constance refused, eating a third biscuit from the plate as though nothing was amiss.

When she launched into another story, busily signing, August pushed back from the table and grabbed his empty glass, motioning to mine. “More wine?”

Constance sneered at the interruption.

I glanced between the pair. “Sure.”

August aimed for the kitchen. The moment he was gone and before Constance could continue, I lowered my voice. “Just an observation from an outsider’s standpoint. He’s right. You’re being very rude. Your father invited me for a festive gathering, and it’s been nothing but miserable.”

She went to sign, but I held up a staying hand. “No. Stop. I see both sides, Constance. I do. But tell me. Is he upset right now because you won’t use your voice or because you have purposefully excluded him from conversation all evening?”

Her face fell.

I left her with her thoughts as I followed August. I found him leaning against the kitchen counter, peering into the depths of his freshly poured wine. Every surface remained soiled from dinner preparation. Sink full of dirty dishes. Leftovers cooling in pots and pans. An excellent chef usually left a trail of destruction, and August stood at ground zero.

“How about I give you a hand cleaning up?”

Eyes full of anguish and regret met mine. He scanned the disaster and shook his head, dismissing it. “I’m so sorry, Niles.”

“For what? For having a teenager who acts like a teenager? Believe me, I’m used to it.”

He motioned with the wine into the other room. “That was… utterly embarrassing.”

I chuckled. “She knows how to get under your skin. A master of the art.”

“It’s exhausting, and I don’t know how to make it better. If I get angry, I make it worse. But all the pleading and begging in the world gets me nowhere. She blames me for everything. Her cancer, her mother, her surgery, probably the pimple she got last week.”

Chuckling, I crossed the kitchen and relieved August of his wine, helping myself to a mouthful from his glass.

Piano playing commenced in the front room. I set the glass among the mess and moved between August’s legs, pressing him back against the counter, invading his space.

A fleeting moment of panic flared in August’s pupils. He flashed his attention to the kitchen door before realizing his daughter was occupied.

Planting my hands on his hips, I leaned in and brushed our noses together. “Relax. She’s busy.” His fright should have annoyed me, and it did on some level, but compassion and sympathy outweighed my frustration and canceled the stubbornness I felt over my rules.

Questions swam in August’s dark eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Offering affection. It’s my thing, and you look like you need it.”

“I…”

“If it’s too much, I can back off.”

“No. Stay.”

“Gladly.” I touched his face and smoothed the creases from his brow.

August melted at the contact, closing his eyes and exhaling. “You’re incredibly attractive,” I whispered.

“You’re kind.”

I chuckled. “I’m honest. Have you thought about this?” I pressed my lower body against his, grinding once.

He sucked in air. “Niles… shit.” He snagged my waist, keeping me in place and jutting his hips for more.

“Have you?”

“Yes… Kind of. I… Oh god…” He moved in for a kiss.

I held him back, smirking at his eagerness. “Hang on. Don’t get wild yet. I want to say something concerning Constance, and I need you to listen.”

“I don’t want to talk about her right now.”

“It needs to be said, and maybe I shouldn’t be offering advice, but… Listen.” I moved my mouth to his ear and lowered my voice. “Choose your battles. She’s a good girl. She could be doing drugs. She could be sneaking out at night to drink or have sex. She could be self-destructive, a delinquent, skipping class, or getting in trouble with the law. If her worst crime is using sign language instead of the modified voice the doctors gave her, maybe you should consider yourself lucky.” I took his earlobe into my mouth, teasing it with my tongue.

August grunted, then responded breathlessly, “But… I don’t know sign language. It’s frustrating.”

“What’s stopping you from learning?”

“I…” His breathing hitched when I sucked again. “Jesus… I… I don’t know… I can’t think right now.”

I pulled back, finding lust and confusion staring back at me. “Problem?”

“Yes. You’re scrambling my brain.”

The lively tinkle of “Music Box Dancer” made me smile. “I’ve always loved this piece.”

“For the love of god, Niles…” He snagged my face between his hands, injecting me with a full dose of yearning and impatience. August wet his lips, gaze flicking to my mouth, my eyes, my mouth again. “Can I kiss you now?”

I kissed him first, long and hard and deep. He met me with the same passion, reservation all but gone. I wasn’t sure he’d heard a single thing I’d said. Tugging me against his chest, he claimed my mouth with the desperation of a man stealing a moment he’d chanced upon by accident. One he knew wouldn’t last. A moment he intended to suck the marrow out of until there was nothing left, hunger satisfied.

August tasted like wine, orange glaze, and cinnamon. Cookies, winter nights, and Christmas magic.

We came apart when the song stopped, panting, occupying the same space, buzzing with want and need but listening intently to be sure Constance wasn’t about to barge into the kitchen.

Hearts knocking, the silence stretched. When another song rang out, August exhaled relief.

“Later?” I whispered against his mouth.

August nodded. “Please. She goes to bed early. I don’t force it. It’s her thing.”

The music continued, another whimsical piece full of holiday magic. It injected a dreamlike quality to the moment. Was I making a mistake? Maybe. Time would tell.

Body humming and alive with desire, I regretfully stepped back, putting much-needed space between us. August adjusted himself and glanced around the kitchen, cheeks high with color.

“How about I help you clean up?”