“Of course you are. You’re brilliant, and anyone who doubted you is an idiot.”
“Arthur’s going to lose his mind when I present the signed agreements to the board.”
“Good. Let him.” Michael released me, his expression turning more serious. “But are you sure about tonight? Six kids is a lot, even on a good day.”
“I’ve got this. You and Shelly go have your date night. Give her flowers. Be romantic. Pretend you’re twenty-three again and not exhausted parents living in your sister’s mayhem.”
He grinned. “All right. But Tess? Call if you need backup. We can be home in twenty minutes.”
“I won’t need backup. It’s just dinner and bedtime. How hard can it be?”
Famous last words.
Dinner with all the kids went exactly as I should have expected.
I’d made spaghetti—simple, kid-friendly, hard to screw up. But I’d forgotten to account for Rome’s enthusiasm or Fury’s “helping.”
“I can stir!” Rome announced, climbing onto a chair before I could stop him.
“Me too!” Fury scrambled up beside him.
“Hey, let Aunt Theresa—” Blaze started, already in Michael-mode.
But it was too late. Rome grabbed the wooden spoon with both hands and stirred with such vigor that sauce splattered across the stovetop. Fury reached for the pasta pot?—
“No!” I caught his hand just in time. “That’s hot, buddy. Very hot.”
“I was just gonna help,” Fury said, his lower lip trembling.
“I know, sweetheart. But the best way to help right now is to set the table. Can you and Rome do that?”
They scrambled down and attacked the silverware drawer with alarming enthusiasm. Within thirty seconds, forks and spoons were distributed with no regard for placement or logic.
“The fork goes on the left,” Blaze said, already rearranging them.
“Why?” Fury asked.
“Because that’s where it goes. That’s the rule.”
“But why is it the rule?”
Paris appeared at my elbow. “The spaghetti is going to burn if you don’t stir it.”
She was right. I grabbed the spoon and stirred, water splattering my shirt in the process.
Austin set down his book and came to help without being asked, draining the pasta with the careful precision he applied to everything. “The garlic bread’s ready too.”
“Thank you, sweetheart.”
We got everyone seated eventually, though the table looked like a before picture in a parenting magazine. Plates of spaghetti in front of each child. Garlic bread piled in the middle. Cups of milk that would inevitably get spilled.
“Can we say grace?” Blaze asked.
The question caught me off guard. Shelly’s family always said grace. Mine hadn’t. Marco’s hadn’t. It was one of those small differences that had always been there but never felt important.
“Of course,” I said.
Blaze folded his hands and closed his eyes. “God is great, God is good, let us thank Him for our food. Amen.”
