I barely get the key to the lock when the door swings open. My mom stands there in her favorite rust-colored cardigan, eyes bright as they land on us. “Brandon!” she exclaims, practicallypulling him into a hug before I can even step inside. “Oh, it’s so wonderful to see you! Come in, come in!”
We shuffle into the entryway, the familiar scent of cinnamon and roasting turkey surrounding us. Dad emerges from the living room, remote in hand, his face breaking into a wide smile.
“There he is!” Dad booms, clapping Brandon on the shoulder. “Perfect timing, son. Patriots and Cowboys kick off in twenty. I’ve got your favorite spot on the couch all ready.”
I give my head a little shake, grinning. “You’d think he’syourguest, not mine.”
“Come on,” Brandon says to me. “It’s thePatriots.”
I watch as they fall into an easy conversation about standings and stats, and the familiarity of it makes something twist inside my chest.
Mom finally turns to hug me, but when she pulls away, her eyes dart back to where I’m staring at Brandon, and she clears her throat. “Want to help me with the cinnamon rolls?” she asks, tilting her head toward the kitchen. “The first batch is cooling and ready for frosting.”
“Sure.” I follow her into the kitchen, inhaling deeply as the warm scent of cinnamon and sugar envelops me.
The rolls sit on cooling racks, golden-brown and perfect, just waiting for the cream cheese frosting that’s already prepared in a bowl.
Mom hands me a spatula while she stirs something on the stove. “I’m so glad you brought Brandon home,” she says, pausing to study me. “I’ll admit, I thought you might bring Ethandespite telling me you had broken things off. You seemed so determined to make that work.”
I hum noncommittally, focusing on the rolls. “Brandon and I always spend holidays together, and trust me, what I had with Ethan isover.”
Especially now that I see how it could be.
I flick a glance at Brandon, grateful for the open floorplan that allows me to eye him while I work.
He catches me watching him and winks.
I bite my lip, when Mom bangs her spoon against the pot and I jump. Setting it down, she comes to my side and leans her hip against the counter. “There’s something different between you two. Some kind of shift.”
I shrug, willing the heat in my cheeks to fade, seeing as how she’s already reading me like a book. “I don’t know what you mean. We’re the same Tate and Brandon as always,” I say.
“So, I’m imagining it?”
I glance up at her, lips parting, a weak excuse on the tip of my tongue when a hand darts out, snagging a frosted roll from the dish. “Hey!” I protest, whacking the back of Brandon’s hand with the frosting-coated spatula.
“Sorry. Couldn’t wait.” He grins, and my heart kicks as he very slowly licks the frosting from the back of his hand.
I swallow; the breath lodged in my throat. Because I know exactly what that mouth can do.
“Grab me one, too, will ya?” my dad calls out, breaking me from my hormone-induced trance.
“Will do, Mr. Fletcher,” Brandon drawls, the corners of his lips tipping as if he knows exactly what I’m thinking.
I watch as he snags another roll and puts it on a plate for my father, then disappears back into the living room.
Blinking, I glance over at my mom, who plucks the spatula from my hand with a smile. “Nothing’s changed, huh?”
The aroma of roast turkey, sage stuffing, and freshly baked rolls fills the dining room as we gather around the table. Mom’s outdone herself again—crystal glasses catching the light from her prized candelabra, the good China set out for the occasion, and a centerpiece of russet and gold chrysanthemums framing the feast.
“Brandon, would you do the honors?” Dad asks, passing him the carving knife.
“Be careful,” I tease. “Last time you carved a turkey, you nearly took off a finger.”
Brandon shoots me a mock-offended look. “That was freshman year of high school, and it was a ham, not a turkey.”
“Actually,” Mom chimes in, her eyes twinkling with mischief, “it was sophomore year, and Tatum had to drive you to urgent care for three stitches.”
“Et tu, Mrs. Fletcher?” Brandon clutches his chest dramatically before expertly slicing into the golden-brown bird. “I’llhave you know my knife skills have improved considerably since then.”
