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He was no longer controlling a raging boner, but working out ways he could destroy this man, named after beef, in Birdie’s life.
“Angus is?” Boyfriend, fiancé, submissive?
“My guy Friday…” She added, “Or was, anyway. For all intents and purposes, he was also Mia’s nanny. Now he’s… I guess you could call him my best friend.”
He didn’t like that. Not one bit.
Deciding to take a stealthy approach at gathering information, he asked, “Mia has a male nanny? How old is this male nanny?”
She grinned. “Seventy, and you can barely understand a word he says because of his thick Scottish accent.”
“Mia’s attached to him then?”
She nodded, working through the various bottles of olive oil he kept next to his stovetop. “Yeah, he was my husband’s butler, assistant, right-hand man. And all-around BFF. Now, he’s mine.”
“A seventy-year-old Scottish butler is your best friend?”
She responded with her signature half shrug. “I started my own business after college, working sixty-hour weeks for the first couple years. I didn’t have time to make girlfriends or be there for Mia like I wanted. Angus filled the gap with Mia and is now my best friend. Now that Marshall’s gone.”
“If you don’t mind me asking, how did he pass?”
“Cancer,” she responded, sticking her finger in the fig infused olive oil and licking it.
It was fucked up that his dick was tunneling through his pants while she was telling him about her sick husband.
Jesus, Santos.
Fish bait, tampon commercials implying women shoved bolts of cotton up their…
Interrupting his mantra, she said, “He passed shortly after being diagnosed.” Keeping her chin down, she added, “I’m glad he didn’t suffer long. He wasn’t a man who tolerated illness. Saw it as a personal weakness that kept him from protecting his family.”
The sadness in her eyes managed to bring the hardness factor down a couple degrees.
“How long were you married?”
“Let’s see.” She patted her lips as if thinking. “Mia was three when we got married, so that would make it… eleven years?”
Interesting. That required a lot of math for a number most people knew by heart.
The sound of the front door blowing open interrupted their conversation as Mia walked in behind the Chief, chatting away and sharing details about their home in Boston, while holding a foil covered Pyrex dish. Failing to notice her mother standing straight as a stick with her arms crossed.
“Well, hello there, jailbird.”
Mia’s exuberance came to a standstill. Slowing her gait as if walking the last green mile.
“Oh, uh, hi Mom. When did you get here?”
“A few hours ago,” she responded, taking the dish and setting it on the counter and giving her insubordinate daughter a big hug. “You know, you used to smell like crayons and baby shampoo, but now it’s more like hairspray and deodorant.”
“Mom, stop it. I haven’t held a crayon since I was, like, ten.”
Lucas smiled as he realized Birdie was a big softie as she barnacled her daughter in a near suffocating embrace.
Finally, Mia began to struggle so Birdie relinquished her hold, kissing her on the cheek, and asked, “Would you kindly introduce me to your friend?”
“Yeah, um, Mom, this is the Chief. Chief, this is my mom.”
Birdie reached out to shake his hand when Lucas said, “This is Hollis Walker, the Chief of the Wayward Fire Station.”
