The Broody Brit for Christmas (Holiday Springs #1) - M.J. Fields Page 0,5
one gave Nathaniel a hard time; the entire town adored him, spoiled him rotten. And although I am not a fan of a child being handed the moon, the fact that this new employee was downright rude to my son pissed me off.
“I’ll stop by and have a chat with this person before coming to Bookland.”
“Dad, don’t be mean,” left his mouth in a whisper, and I was taken aback.
“When am I ever mean?” I huffed and quickly added, “And why, in this instance, should I not be? Someone was rude to my son and—”
“Just don’t, Dad. I was wrong. Plus, she looked like she was having—”
“Don’t make excuses for someone’s poor behavior, Nathaniel. If she was rude—”
“She looked like she was having a crummy day. Nobody deserves a crummy day. Everyone deserves to be happy.”
And this is what therapy does for a child.
Not that I’m against therapy. Hell, it could have possibly saved my son’s life. Those weekly visits with Dr. Shapiro have made a positive impact on him, but now, he’s so damn deep it’s disturbing. Especially to a British man who was raised to hide emotions. Nathaniel being more in touch with his inner self and being extremely mature for his age is still often jarring.
I’m quite certain losing his mum took away the naïveté that most kids are lucky enough to carry with them, well past his age. The bottom line is, Nathaniel sure knows just what to say to kick me in the heart, making me less the stereotypical emotionless British gentleman by the year. I’m not less of a man because of it. In fact, I think he makes me more of a man.
Yet, he causes me to worry.
I shiver, imagining the second-worst day of my life when Nathaniel told me he wanted to go to heaven with his mum because he didn’t feel like he even knew her anymore.
That comment changed everything, and it brought us here, to the US, to be close to her family so that the memories he was losing might be brought back. Vacations during Christmastime in Holiday Springs with Hope’s family were some of the best times of our lives. No place made Hope or Nathaniel happier, which in turn, made me … happy.
I didn’t expect to plant deeper roots in this quaint town than we had in London. But seeing the bright smile on Nathaniel’s face when I casually mentioned moving here or witnessing his utter joy when he played in the snow and watching him laugh with Hope’s sister, Faith changed all that. They baked cookies and sang along to holiday tunes, the same ones he used to sing with his mum. I guess I hadn’t even realized how long it had been since he truly smiled and seeing that made leaving London the easy choice. In fact, Nathaniel isn’t the only one who finally began smiling once we made Holiday Springs our home. Coming here felt an awful lot like breathing again. Until then, I hadn’t realized I was suffocating until I finally took a large breath and inhaled this fresh air and a giant step back away from the business Hope and I had built together. In London, life was work. But here, work is a part of life.
Having to honor Nathaniel’s request that I would not be rude to this person who gave him hell today, I still need to make my presence known. Be seen as a proper father to a decent young man. Pulling up in front of the Sweet Spot, I pulled off my helmet, slid on my glasses, and stepped off my bike before hurrying across the street before they close at six p.m.
Stopping for a passing truck, I look at my wristwatch and curse the fact that I am so late and that I have to stop to teach this woman a lesson.
By the door of the Sweet Spot, a woman yells, “Well, halle-fuckin-lujah!”
Even knowing damn well this stranger, this auburn-haired foul-mouthed woman who had been harsh with Nathaniel, I couldn’t help but get a kick out of her obvious don’t-give-a-shit attitude.
Clearly, she doesn’t know that if Maybell, across the street at the diner, heard her cursing, specifically in the context in which she did, she would drag her arse to church seven days a week to pray over her. I’d pay a pretty penny to bear witness to that.
From two steps behind her, as she digs in her purse, I ask, “Do you need a hand?”