The Other Man (Rose Gold Book 1)

by Nicole French

Her sharp eyes didn’t miss a thing, lingering over the hem of my pants, my carefully polished shoes, the hat tilted over my brow. She drew it down my legs, then back up to my chest before finally reaching my mouth again.

  Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Is this what girls experienced when I gave them the up-and-down? I felt like Nina de Vries had just peeled every piece of clothing from my body with a simple expression, and now I was standing on this Avenue A sidewalk stark naked.

  “Yes,” she said, more to herself than to me. “It’s definitely the man.”

  And then she walked on, leaving me on the street corner for more than a second before I jogged up to meet her, wondering what the hell had just happened.

  “Okay,” she said once I’d caught up. “So, what happened? You went off to war, and the two of you just drifted apart?”

  “Not exactly, but sort of. After I completed OCS, I stayed at Quantico for another six months of training, then D.C. for another year before I was deployed. We made it work while I was still stateside. She’d come down when I had liberty, I’d go up for a day or two on leave. It was kind of romantic. Hot, even.”

  Nina didn’t look impressed.

  I shrugged. “She probably liked the cammies, like you said.”

  “You’re downplaying something.”

  I peered at her. “What makes you say that, doll?”

  “Don’t patronize me, Matthew. Especially not with…that…name.”

  She was irritated with me. But it was the way her voice cracked at the end that really gutted me. The acknowledgement—without actually saying as much—that the nickname was special. She knew it. I knew it. And though neither of us had the right to say it, the meaning was clear: don’t joke around with that shit. Don’t use it to play her for a fool.

  I sighed. “All right, all right. But what do you want me to say? That I thought I was in love, but I was too stupid and naive to understand what love really is?”

  “I don’t believe that. Your grandparents—from what you’ve said, you had a wonderful example.”

  I shook my head. “Tell that to the guy who came home after his first tour to find his girl doing the bodega owner down the street. In the bed he was hoping to share with her.”

  She stopped. “What?”

  I shrugged. “Look, it wasn’t her fault. When I got back from deployment, I was different. She could feel it. I could feel it. Problem was, neither of us wanted to talk about it. Especially not me.”

  Nina shook her head. “Different how?”

  “It’s…hard to explain. But you change…out there.” That was about all I was willing to say.

  Hmm. Well. Regardless, I don’t understand how she could do that. You were at war. You were a soldier—”

  “A Marine,” I corrected her gently.

  “You were fighting for our country,” she sputtered. “Of course you were different when you came home. But how could she not have been there for you?”

  “Not everyone can deal with what happens to service members in combat, Nina.”

  She stopped again to look at me. This time, I didn’t look away.

  “Tell me what you mean.”

  It wasn’t a request. And for some reason, her entitlement to that story irritated me even more.

  “When I got back from Iraq, I went to confession every day for a month. Trust me, Nina. You don’t want to know about all the things that happen at war.”

  “Don’t I?”

  I narrowed my eyes. “No. You don’t. And you know what? Neither did Sherry.”

  We stood there for another minute or two, engaged in some strange staring contest over my service record, of all things. Nina and I both had our pasts. Our secrets. Things we would rather not revisit. She hadn’t opened up about hers, but she was asking me to share some of the worst atrocities I’d ever been through right here on the open street?

  For a moment, I wanted to walk away. I wasn’t sure anyone was worth reliving those moments. Not even her.

  But in the end, she broke away first, and we took the next few blocks in silence. Somehow, this had turned into something different than our average casual lunch date. I didn’t know how or why. And the idea scared me.

  “Did you—they talk a lot about the soldiers—service people—” Nina stumbled over the correct phrasing, the way a lot of civilians tended to do. “The ones who come back. Did you ever have it? PTSD?”

  I snorted. “You make it sound like a virus. Like it’s catching.”

  “Well, it is an illness, isn’t it?”

  “It’s complicated.”

  Post. Traumatic. Stress. Disorder. The first three words of the acronym, I always understood. The last word—I didn’t like that one so much. I wasn’t okay with walking around thinking something was wrong with me or the men who served with me. Like we were clocks that couldn’t keep time anymore.

  Nina didn’t press, but her presence pushed me anyway. It was funny. Some of this I hadn’t even been able to discuss with the shrink my CO recommended when I left. And by “recommended,” I mean he said he would kick my ass if I didn’t see him.

  “I don’t have PTSD because my family won’t let me,” I said finally. “But a lot of guys aren’t so lucky.”

  This time, she was patient, just waited for me to talk.

  “I don’t think anyone there could really explain—the right way—all the things that happen.” I blinked. “But the worst was the way everything could change on a dime. One day we might have been patrolling. We’d say hi to the local kids. The next, we were shooting at their houses. Cleaning up their bodies from the road, praying to God they were able to forgive us once they were gone. It would go from, well, definitely not heaven, I’d say, but something livable, and then straight to hell in the space of a second. And I could never quite shake the feeling that I was causing the latter.”

  “Don’t say that.” She reached out and straightened my collar, tugging on it slightly. “You’re a hero, Matthew.”

  My eyes pricked like they hadn’t since I was a kid. I found it hard to swallow. For years, people had used that word when they talked about me. But it had always felt like a lie. I was never sure, not completely, that the other things I did, the mistakes I had made, didn’t outweigh the good.

  “I’m not a hero, Nina,” I said. “Just a man.”

  “Well,” Nina said quietly. “I can’t imagine what kind of woman wouldn’t want a man like you.”

  “Most women don’t want a real man. They just want the act. The fantasy. And you know what, sweetheart? I’m happy to give it to them. I haven’t needed anything else since.” My words were harsher than I intended. But I was tired of this conversation.

  Nina just kept watching the parade of emotions running across my face. For a moment, I wanted to run off into the night. Play a coward, because I hated the way one look from her seemed to spear through all my layers of bullshit and stir up things I made a point never to think about.

  “Honestly?” she said. “You were right. I am jealous.”

  “Jealous?” I asked incredulously. “You’re jealous of that? A fucked-up life of overcompensation?”

  “I’m jealous that you’ve truly accomplished something.” She stopped again. This part of the Village was darker, a bit more deserted than the rest. “Look at you. You’re a self-made man in the truest sense. You served this country with honor. You continue to do so with your profession. Even my family owes you a great debt.”

  I opened my mouth to argue, but to my surprise, she wasn’t done.

  “What am I?” Nina demanded as she strode on. “My money, my education, my entire life has been handed to me from the highest point of privilege. I can claim no accomplishments that are truly my own. I am mediocre. If that.”

  I couldn’t take it anymore. I didn’t know why hearing her talk about herself like that drove me so crazy, but I really couldn’t fuckin’ handle it.

  I grabbed Nina’s hand and pulled her back to face me. To my surprise, I found her eyes shining un
der the bright afternoon sun. The ice princess was gone. Melting away beneath my touch.

  I cupped her face. “Listen to me, all right?”

  “Matthew—”

  “Just listen. Nina Astor Astor de Vries whatever. You are anything but mediocre. You are fucking…” I took a moment, searching for a single word that could explain what I thought when I saw her. “Extraordinary.”

  I brushed my thumbs over her cheeks, wishing to God I could kiss her. Even now, we were walking a very thin line. If someone we knew saw us like this, they would see in a second what was written across both our faces.

  But I couldn’t let go any more than I could say the word thumping through my chest. I was too scared it would send me into some strange chasm I’d never be able to climb out of.

  “I have never met anyone like you,” I said honestly. “Mysterious as you are. Cultured. Sharp. Impossibly beautiful, inside and out. I wouldn’t change a single fuckin’ thing. Not one.”

  And then, because I couldn’t stop myself, I pressed my lips to her brow. Nina sucked in a breath.

  “Oh, Matthew,” she whispered as her hands curled around my collar. “This isn’t…I don’t know what to do with you.”

  I laid my cheek against her forehead and closed my eyes, inhaling her sweet scent.

  “There’s nothing to do, baby,” I said. “Just know that you have someone in your corner. That someone out there thinks you’re incredible like no one else. Know that, and remember it when you’re feeling down.” I stood up straight again. “And don’t waste your tears on me, doll. I’m not worth them.”

  The idea only seemed to make her eyes shimmer more. “I’m not the only one with a diminished sense of self-worth. If I have to remember all of that, then so do you.”

  I shrugged. I should have stopped stroking her hair, but I couldn’t. This was how it was with her. I was an addict. I would convince myself that all I needed was a tiny hit to take the edge off, but once I started, I couldn’t stop.

  I took a deep breath and pulled my hands away, shoving them deep into my pockets where they couldn’t find her waist, her elbow, her shoulder. Anything to touch.

  And then, as if the universe knew we needed an interruption, Nina’s stomach growled. Loudly.

  She broke away and covered her face, looking mortified.

  I had to laugh. “Damn. I need to feed you, don’t I?”

  Suddenly, the idea of tucking her away in some dark restaurant where no one we knew would ever find us seemed like a travesty. Nina wasn’t a woman who should be shoved in a corner. She was a light, a beacon in this dark city. She deserved to shine.

  “Come on,” I said, pulling her hand, this time toward the curb. “We’re going uptown.”

  “Uptown?” She backed away, alarmed. “Why ever would we—”

  I turned. “You said you wanted to get out of Manhattan, right?”

  “I—well, yes.”

  I chuckled, shaking my head. “We’re going uptown uptown. I’m talking about the Bronx. Come on, doll, I promised you pasta. If we hustle, we’ll make it in time for dinner.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  “I don’t know about this,” Nina said for the hundredth time in thirty minutes. “I’m really not dressed to meet family.”

  We stood on the sidewalk of Hughes Avenue, looking up at the house where I had been raised.

  “Nina, this is my grandparents’ house, not the governor’s mansion. The last time anyone updated it was about 1975, and half the current occupants will have tomato sauce on their cheeks. Trust me, you’re good.”

  Nina gazed at the house that faced Ciccarone Park, one block from the heart of Belmont. Just north of us, Fordham University loomed. Five blocks east, we’d end up at the Bronx Zoo. To her credit, Nina hadn’t looked terrified when she discovered that by uptown, I meant the Bronx, the way most people from outside the city might have. She was, in spite of her tower, local. But that didn’t mean she had actually spent much time up here.

  Nina looked toward 187th, which, even in the dark, was still dancing with strung lights and the sounds of people enjoying the many Italian restaurants in the area. Raucous shouts and laughter of the neighborhood enjoying itself echoed from the other side of the street. It was a typical Saturday night in Belmont, which meant that while the bakeries and markets were long shut up, the rows of Italian restaurants would stay open until the chefs decided to go home. And given how often most of them drank with their last customers, it wouldn’t be for a long time.

  “You’re sure it’s not too late?” She checked her watch. “It’s nearly nine o’clock. Won’t the children be going to sleep?”

  I snorted. “Not likely. The baby might be in the bedroom, but the kids are probably still going nuts.”

  As a kid, I didn’t think I’d ever seen the lights in anyone’s apartment go out until after eleven or midnight. At Tino’s, a restaurant owned by a distant cousin, reservations peaked around nine at night—especially on the weekends—and meals could last for hours, particularly if Tino brought out the Strega.

  More often, however, it was us who would serve meals until two in the morning. My grandmother would cook for an army if she could, and as her and Nonno’s families slowly followed them to this neighborhood over the years, they were often called on to host the hoards. Kids in our family learned to sleep where they could, crumpling at their mothers’ feet or on the couch. When my sisters or I complained about being tired, Nonno would gesture at the beaten wood floor before lighting his cigar and say, “You’re tired? There’s your bed. Buonanotte.”

  The Zolas lived in a true house, with crowded wood slats over a brick base and a big front porch where my friends and I used to lounge as teenagers until my grandmother chased us to the park with her broom. We don’t share no walls, Nonno always told anyone who cared to hear. In New York, that was a real accomplishment.

  Lights shining behind the crooked blinds informed me people were home, if the hum behind the door didn’t already. Nonna, plus at least a couple of sisters. Joni and Marie, probably. Lea often brought the kids over on Saturdays too.

  “You grew up here?” Nina said.

  “From fourteen on, yeah,” I said. “My youngest sisters, they don’t remember anything else. But my parents’ apartment was about five blocks away. This area…I guess you could call it home.”

  Compared to her palatial building on Lexington, this house was the definition of shabby. It had been years since I noticed the peeling paint, the rusting iron railing, the slightly crooked porch stairs. Fuck. I should have fixed them by now. These were the types of things I’d been doing since Nonno died. I couldn’t let them go.

  “Are there a lot of people here tonight?” Nina asked nervously.

  “Tonight? Probably not. It’s a Saturday, so there might be ten in there at most.”

  Nina’s eyes widened. “Ten is small?”

  I nodded. “Oh, sure. You come on a Sunday, that’s when my aunts, uncles, cousins—everyone stops by after Mass. It’s a madhouse.”

  “Do you—do you go every week?”

  I shook my head. “No, although I’ll never stop hearing that I should. But I come when I can. Every few weeks or so.”

  Nina touched her hair, which was tied casually at the base of her neck, allowing a few blonde tendrils to frame her features. Tear-shaped pearls dangled from her ears. She might have felt like a mess, but I honestly wasn’t sure she had ever looked more alluring. Of course, I seemed to think that every time I saw her.

  She took a deep breath and exhaled slowly before offering me a reluctant smile. “All right. Shall we?”

  “Look,” I said. “Getting on my grandmother’s good side is really easy.”

  “Oh?” Nina said. “How is that?”

  “Simple, doll,” I replied. “Have seconds.”

  With a wink, I unlocked the door and ushered her into the chaos of my family.

  And chaos it was.

  “Ziooooooooooo!”

  Two seco
nds after the war cry, two not-so-small boys shot down the stairs and tackled me on the landing.

  “Hey, hey!” I shouted. “Tommy! Pete! Get off!”

  “Uncle Mattie! What are you doing here?”

  “Ma said you weren’t coming this week because you’re up to no good.”

  “Did you bring anything from Gino’s? Aunt Kate forgot dessert.”

  “Who’s this lady?”

  “Did she bring food too?”

  Somehow, I managed to peel my two barnacles of nephews off my legs while they continued hurling questions. “Whoa, whoa, whoa, boys. Calm down, all right? Give us a second to catch our breaths.”

  Tommy and Pete, otherwise known as two of my sister Lea’s three sons stood at relative attention while I helped Nina remove her jacket and hung it on the hooks by the door with my own coat and hat.

  “Should I remove my shoes?” she asked doubtfully.

  I glanced at the scuffed wood floors and the threadbare runner that followed the hall to the kitchen and living room. “Nah, baby. You’re good. Nina, these are my nephews, Thomas and Peter Scarrone. Tom, Pete. This is my friend, Nina. Can you animals show her some decent manners?”

  Tommy’s and Pete’s eyes widened as they got a good look at my guest. Hell, I didn’t really blame them. She was stunning.

  They mumbled unintelligibly, bobbing their heads up and down like an arcade game.

  I nudged Tommy on the shoulder. “What are you, wolf cubs? Use English, you hooligans.”

  Both boys blinked at Nina with big eyes for a half-second. Energy vibrated through their small limbs, though I could tell they were at least trying to make a nice impression.

  “It’s lovely to meet you,” Nina said, her gray eyes shining with amusement.

  The sound of her voice proved to be too much.

  “Nicetomeetyoutoo!” Tommy shrieked, then shot up the stairs toward the bedrooms, Pete hot on his heels.

  I turned to Nina and shrugged. “Boys. I’m sorry. I try to teach them some manners, but they’re heathens.”

  She bit her lip. “Livy would probably like them.”

  The face of her daughter, the little blonde girl I’d only seen the one time, appeared in my mind’s eye, as it had several other times since our walk through Fort Greene park the other day.