Soaring (Magdalene #2)(25)
“Isn’t that young?” I asked Mickey.
“I’m advanced,” Cillian said cheekily.
I grinned at him but even if he was being funny, the mother in me came right out.
“Being a fighter pilot is kind of a dangerous job, Cillian,” I shared hesitantly.
“I know!” he cried exuberantly, doing it sharing that danger was a big draw for that particular occupation.
I looked to Mickey, eyes wide.
He gave me one of his quick grins. “Not gonna talk him outta it, darlin’. Before he entered the highway to the danger zone, he wanted to be a firefighter, like his dad, a cop, a lawyer, which I also blame on Tom Cruise seein’ as that stretch, thankfully brief, came after Cill saw A Few Good Men. Then he was back to firefighter, moved on to Navy SEAL, then latched onto fighter pilot. Not one of ’em is a desk job that would make a mother’s heart settle, ’cept bein’ a lawyer, which would make his father’s head explode. But with this last one, it’s been years. I’m thinkin’ this one’s here to stay.”
“And get this!” Cillian butted in. “Dad’s got a friend who’s an instructor at Luke in Phoenix and we’re goin’ there for Christmas and we’re goin’ on the base and Uncle Chopper thinks he can get me in the flight simulator!”
“Do or die,” Mickey muttered and when I looked at him questioningly, he explained, “Luke’s an Air Force base. And Chop is gonna show us around. Cill sees and does, he either knows he’s gotta work at that, and it isn’t easy, or he’ll have to explore other options.”
I turned to Cillian. “How old are you?”
“Eleven,” he told me.
“You do have some time to figure it out,” I remarked.
“Not if I wanna get in the Air Force Academy, which is the only way to go, so I wanna get in the Air Force Academy. And I gotta have it together to do that,” Cillian replied with hard to miss determination.
I was astonished at his maturity that mingled naturally with his childish effusiveness.
Astonished by it and charmed by it.
“I’ll bet you do,” I murmured, falling a little in love with Cillian Donovan.
“Go get your sister, son,” Mickey ordered.
“’Kay,” Cillian agreed and again jumped off his stool and raced away.
I wrapped my fingers around my beer and took a pull before looking to Mickey and asking, “Can I help?”
“As I said, not lost on me you’ve run yourself ragged since you got to Magdalene, so no. Let me and my kids do the work, babe. You just relax.”
Relaxing would be good, but in Mickey’s presence, I figured it was highly unlikely.
But at that moment, what I really wanted was to find a nice way to ask him not to call me “babe.”
I wanted this because it reminded me of Conrad calling me that and it not meaning anything.
I also wanted it because I wanted it to mean something when Mickey said it, but it still didn’t.
I couldn’t figure out a nice way to say that so I just nodded, took another sip of cold beer and let my eyes wander his kitchen.
His ex was gone from there, totally. I knew it through my eye sweep.
There was a standing KitchenAid mixer that was in a neutral cream that would normally say a woman lived there, but I suspected this was on the counter because Mickey’s daughter liked to bake and Mickey clearly liked his daughter.
Other than that, there was a crock with a gravely lacking selection of cooking utensils stuck in it. Beside the rather nice stainless steel stove were salt and pepper shakers that didn’t match the crock (or the butter dish), and the salt shaker was chipped. There was also a truly unattractive, purchased solely because it did the job, wooden bread box. And although there was a good deal of counter space in the u-shaped kitchen, which also included a large pantry and more counter space separated from the rest against the opposite wall, all of it was taken up with appliances, none of them matching, none of them high quality.
I knew from experience that a family of the age of Mickey’s needed more, and if not the best, at least they needed ones they’d purchased to work and for a good long time, rather than shoddy brands that would break frequently, making you wonder why you didn’t invest wisely in quality in the first place.
You cooked for your family. Your kids had sleepovers and birthday parties that you needed to prepare for. You had friends over. You had family over. You had barbeques and special breakfasts that were about nothing. There were holidays to consider.
This was a man’s kitchen. Although the actual kitchen was highly attractive, it was not tidy and any woman knew the accoutrements had to be copious, carefully selected, and perhaps most importantly, fit the aesthetic.
At the end of my perusal, on the counter against the opposite wall, I spied a big chocolate cake on what appeared to be an antique glass cake plate.
“Aisling’s contribution to our barbeque,” he stated and I moved my gaze to him. “Said we couldn’t have someone over for food without offering dessert.” The easy grin came as he tipped his head sideways, toward the cake. “That’s one she does a lot ’cause her dad and brother f*ckin’ love it. She’s hopin’ you will too.”
“I’m sure I will,” I replied quietly.
His eyes lit with pride. “Be crazy not to, it’s f*ckin’ amazing.”