Desiree turns to me, and I give her a nod, signaling I’m okay with being left with her father.
I watch for a moment as she heads in the direction of the front door before turning back to my car.
“I bet she had your entire car smelling like food.”
I chuckle at Mr. Jackson’s comment. “It had my stomach growling the entire drive here.”
He laughs. “I know that’s right. My baby can cook. She gets it from her mother, you know? That woman can burn in the kitchen. She doesn’t like to do it as much anymore, though.”
I nod, listening to him talk about his wife. Mr. Jackson was always affable whenever we got a chance to speak one-on-one. Of course, when he was worried about Dierdre, or they had a negative family counseling session, he wasn’t so good-natured, but that’s to be expected.
“Look at all of this food. I knew she was going to overdo it.” He shakes his head.
“She wants to make sure everyone is taken care of and gets enough to eat,” I say without even thinking.
“That’s my baby,” he retorts while stacking two aluminum trays on top of one another to carry inside. “She made string beans and biscuits, too?”
“The string beans are my favorite. I casually mentioned that to her the other day, and the next thing I knew, she was adding them to her grocery list.”
He chuckles. “Yup, that’s Desi, all right.”
We make a little more small talk as we stack the dishes on one another in our arms, mindful to do so carefully as not to drop anything. I doubt I could show my face if I were to drop any of the food Desiree prepared outside on the front lawn.
Turning, I manage to press the button on my keychain to lock my door before I follow Mr. Jackson inside. Right before we enter, he pauses, turning to me, his expression more severe than when we were talking about Desiree’s cooking.
“I guess I should apologize in advance for my wife’s actions.”
I frown but don’t get the chance to question him on what he means before Desiree stands before us.
“Thanks, Daddy. Thanks, babe,” she says breathlessly, pressing a kiss to her father’s cheek and then moving to do the same to me, but I turn, capturing her lips. She startles, pulling back with a sheepish expression on her face.
I wiggle my eyebrows, causing her to slap me on the shoulder.
“Follow me. The kitchen’s this way.”
I nod and enthusiastically follow her, watching the side to side movement of her hips in the jeans she’s wearing. I’m so enthralled with watching Desiree, I nearly miss the layout of her parents’ home and almost walk straight into the door that separates the kitchen from the dining area. Luckily, I catch myself before a tragedy happens.
“Mom, you remember Neil,” Desiree introduces as soon as we enter the kitchen.
Her mother’s eyes rove over me, and though the plastered smile on her face remains, I get the sense that she disapproves of my presence. Instantly, myfuck youmeter goes on high alert, and I have to remind myself to chill the hell out.
“Mrs. Jackson, Happy Thanksgiving,” I say as I place the trays of food onto the expansive kitchen island.
“Happy Thanksgiving,” she responds right before her gaze flitters away, connecting with Desiree. “Desi, did I tell you that Sheryl and her son are coming to dinner this evening?”
“No, I don’t think so.”
“Must’ve slipped my mind. Well, they’ll be here any minute now along with the rest of the family.”
I watch as Desiree’s mother eyes her up and down. Something twists in my gut when I notice her frown.
“Desiree, I thought I told you to wear that black and white sweater.”
Desiree peers down at the red, off-the-shoulder she’s wearing with a wrinkled forehead. “Yeah, but I changed my mind.” Her gaze darts over to me, and I smirk, tossing her a wink. Red is my favorite color on her, and she wore the sweater to please me.
Her mother doesn’t miss that exchange, and as my gaze cuts over to her, I can see her frown deepening. Again, my sense to ask her what the hell her problem is wells up, but I keep a lid on it. The last thing I want is to put Desiree in an awkward position at her family’s Thanksgiving dinner.
However, it seems her mother doesn’t have the same reservations I hold because about ten minutes later, while Desiree and I are helping her father set up the table, Mrs. Jackson walks in with a guy a few years younger than me, a beaming smile on her face.
