“No, sir.”
“I don’t see that changing in the foreseeable future.”
Oh shit. Here it comes.“I understand, sir.”
“If you continue seeing my daughter, I’d expect you to be sitting at the dinner table with us. Not standing behind it with a gun in your suit.”
Tox’s relief was palpable. His enthusiasm propelled him forward.
“I hope so, sir. Although to be honest, I’ll probably still have the gun.”
Acosta chuckled. “I would expect nothing less.”
He pulled out the other chair at the table, and Tox joined him, wishing he had accepted the offer of the drink.
“Hell of a thing you did in Afghanistan, son.”
“Sir?”
“That rescue of your teammate was insubordinate, ill-advised, and risky at best.”
The only acknowledgment Tox had received after rescuing Finn McIntyre from eight extremists was a slap on the wrist for ignoring an order to stand down. Nathan Bishop, their naval intelligence contact saved him from more serious repercussions by claiming communications had been disrupted by a windstorm. They hadn’t. Tox hadn’t been bothered by the higherups’ response; he didn’t need another medal. He needed his friend.
“And about the bravest thing one man could do for another.”
Tox picked at the paint on the table without reply. Clemente Acosta stood and retrieved another glass from the cupboard. He poured another scotch and set it in front of Tox.
“I know you boys don’t think of it that way, but I do.”
Tox swallowed and looked up.
“I’m proud to know you, Master Chief.”
The bump of Acosta’s glass hitting the wood of the table marked the subject change.
“Now. Calliope.”
Tox shifted in his chair. Clemente Acosta was not a tall man, and he was pushing seventy. But at that moment he may as well have been ten feet tall.
He continued, “As you know, she’s not my child by birth, but she’s mine in every way a father can love a daughter. When I met her mother…it was like being hit by a train.” Acosta smiled as he twirled his glass with his fingertips. “I looked at her, and I thought, how could I ever call what I felt for other women attraction? That’s what it was, attraction. She was like a magnet pulling me. She was buying a fish at the market in Lisbon. My God, she took my breath. She was a goddess with the tongue of a devil arguing with the fishmonger. And propped on her hip, her daughter, a magical, mischievous little fairy.”
Acosta glanced over Tox’s shoulder. He turned in his chair to catch an eavesdropping Calliope scurrying away.
“I looked at Elara holding Calliope, and she had such fire, such love in her eyes, I thought to myself, I would work my fingers to the bone every day of my life to have that woman look at me with such adoration. That was the moment I knew I loved my Elara. She created this strange duality within me: excitement and calm, passion and peace.” He lifted his right hand, then his left, then pressed them together.
“Calliope was just five when I met her. Her mother set her on her feet and the little imp walked right up to me and kicked me in the shin. Then she smiled—her two front teeth were missing—and curtsied.” Acosta shook his head, enjoying the memory. “The little witch. Then she got distracted by a butterfly and ran off.”
Tox’s lips tipped. Not much had changed.
“It was also the moment I knew, at the age of forty-eight, that I wanted to be a father. No, not a father. I wanted to be her father. She’s our beija Flor, our hummingbird.” He chuckled. “I chase her all around from flower to flower and never seem to catch her.”
He paused, sipped his scotch. “She is very different from you, yes.”
“Yes.”
“That’s not such a bad thing. Esteja com alguém que abre seus olhos para o mundo.” He translated: “Be with someone who opens your eyes to the world.” Acosta met Tox’s gaze. “There’s always another layer to uncover with these women of ours, my boy. Appreciate that.”
Tox gave a confused nod.