"Your mom's?"
"Of course."
"Then we're set." Grant took the dish from her, kissed her lightly, then caught her hand and pulled her inside.
The farmhouse was warm and smelled incredible—cinnamon and sugar and fresh bread and coffee. Thomas was in the kitchen pulling a tray of cinnamon rolls from the oven, and the table was set with more food than three people could possibly eat. There was a frittata studded with vegetables, crispy bacon, hash browns that looked perfectly golden, fresh fruit, and those cinnamon rolls that made Riley's mouth water just looking at them.
"Riley! Merry Christmas!" Thomas set down the rolls and pulled her into a hug that surprised her with its warmth. He smelled like cinnamon and soap, and his hug was the kind that made Riley feel like family.
"Merry Christmas, Thomas. This looks amazing."
"Grant did most of it. I just supervised."
"Lies," Grant said, appearing from the hallway with plates. "Dad made the cinnamon rolls and the hash browns. I just handled the easy stuff."
"The frittata is not easy," Thomas protested. "That's twelve eggs and requires actual technique."
"Dad, you literally taught me how to make it."
"Exactly. Which means I did the hard part."
Riley laughed, and both Lawson men turned to smile at her like they'd planned it. She felt warmth settle in her chest—this easy banter, this comfortable teasing, the way they included her without hesitation.
They settled at the table, and Riley found herself between Grant and Thomas, surrounded by food and warmth and easy conversation. The cinnamon rolls were incredible—soft and gooey with just the right amount of icing. The frittata was perfectly cooked, the vegetables tender and flavorful. Even the hash browns, which Riley usually found bland, were crispy and seasoned just right.
"This is your mom's recipe?" Riley asked around a bite of cinnamon roll.
"All of it," Thomas said, and there was something soft in his voice. "Martha insisted on a big Christmas brunch. Said waffles were for regular Sundays, but Christmas deserved cinnamon rolls and all the fixings."
"She was right."
"She usually was." Thomas smiled at Grant. "Grant’s mother would have loved having you here, Riley. She always said Grant needed someone who could keep up with him."
"Dad—" Grant's ears went pink.
"What? It's true. You've always been stubborn and particular, and Riley here doesn't take any of your nonsense."
"I don't have nonsense," Grant protested.
Riley and Thomas looked at each other and burst out laughing.
"What?"
"You reorganized my spice rack," Riley said.
"It was chaos."
"It was alphabetical!"
"Alphabetical is wrong. It should be by frequency of use."
"See?" Thomas gestured at Grant with his fork. "Nonsense."
Grant shook his head but he was smiling, and Riley felt that warmth in her chest expand into something bigger, something that felt dangerously like belonging. In his family, the same way he fit into hers so well the night before.
Thomas told stories about Grant as a kid—the time he'd tried to bring a baby goat into the house because it was cold outside. The Christmas he'd accidentally set the tree on fire with too many candles because he wanted it to look "really festive." The year he'd saved up all his allowance to buy his mother a necklace she'd admired in the jewelry store window downtown.
Grant's face went soft at that last one. "She wore it every day until she died. It's in Dad's dresser now."
