Celeste simply watches her with an amused expression.
When my daughter swallows dramatically and flies from her chair, she grabs Celeste’s hand, almost pulling her over as she tries to rise from the table in a flurry of limbs. But to Celeste’s credit, she chuckles and follows willingly.
“More potatoes, Hank?”
“No thanks, this old man is full.” He leans back in his chair, and we chat about vague things like the weather, how the season is tracking this year, and the old houses we live in. Not once in the ten minutes we spend together does he refer to his daughter. Only his wife gets a mention when he recounts one particularly cold winter, that from what I gather was over twenty years ago.
When footsteps thunder back downstairs, I go to intercept Maisey before she can rope Celeste into a damn sleepover or something of the sorts.
“Mai—”
I slam into fragrant softness, dark hair tumbling over her shoulders and into my chest.
Not Maisey.
“Oh, shit, sorry,” Celeste breathes.
I steady her with my hands firmly on her arms. Her dark eyes flick up to my gaze. Her last breath stutters out as her eyes darken, the pupils swallowing the dark cinnamon color that sparkles under Maisey’s deluge of Christmas lights.
“Don’t be,” I utter. “You all good?” I step back, releasing my grip.
A shaky smile ghosts over her lips. “Yup.”
“Don’t let Maise con you into anything you don’t want to do.”
“I’m afraid that ship has sailed.”
I tilt my head, waiting for her to elaborate.
“No, not Maisey, she’s wonderful. I was just referring to my life in general.”
And there it is—the statement that speaks volumes as to how she feels about being back here. At least, that’s my assumption.
“Tell you what, how about you help me with the dishes, and I’ll listen.”
She goes to object, and I close in again.
“I’m a pretty good listener, Celeste.”
Too close.
I’m too close. She’s all elegant angles and curves. Smells fucking edible, and when her bottom lip disappears between her teeth, hell, I have to check myself.
Finally, she says, “Okay. Maybe the abridged version, since it’s getting late.”
“Perfect.”
I reroute to the dining room and collect the plates. Hank has wandered to the living room and is browsing the bookshelf. In the kitchen, I find Celeste adding soap to the water in the sink, her hand dipping into it as she swirls the suds to life.
And the pure domesticity of this moment steals a breath, holding it hostage before I can wrangle another in. When my brain flickers back online, I place the dishes to her right and swipe up a tea towel from the oven handle.
“Sorry, I hope it’s okay that I wash?” she says softly.
“Go for it.”
She washes as I dry, and we settle into a comfortable silence before she breaks it. “Thanks for feeding my father and me.”
“It was our pleasure. And it was Maisey’s idea.”
