Ask a stupid question, get a stupid answer. So, why the fuck did he even ask? The mess he was in was his own damn fault.
Matt stared out the cold glass and sighed. The Japanese cherry he and Gina planted, a symbol of sweet love and new beginnings, looked so fragile in the snow. He hoped she got to see it blossom in the spring.
The scent of her struck him from behind, and her arms came around him. “You good?”
“Yeah.” Turning away from the window, he kissed her forehead.
“I know they can be a lot.”
“They were fine.”Mostly. “Dinner with your folks went surprisingly well, I thought.”
Kevin did not exaggerate. Theywereloud. And boisterous.
“Yeah, I thought so, too,” she said over her shoulder, heading into the kitchen where a large tray ofmanicottiwas heating in the oven. “Mom said you didn’t eat enough.”
“Seriously?”
Mangia, mangia, mangia.
Any time Matt cleaned off his plate, there was Rosemary, piling more onto it. The tryptophan coma was already calling his name, but it wasn’t over yet.
On to Thanksgiving, part two.
Everything about the house across the street was dramatic, dark, and moody—just like Sloan. Black walls. Avant-garde paintings and kitschy artwork. A tiger-striped sofa. Expressive, explicit, eclectic, and a bit morbid, Sloan’s living room looked like a cross between a punk bar and an urban subculture museum. Nothing matched, but somehow it all went together.
Gina looked up at his odd assortment ofobjets d’art. A signed Motörhead album cover in a frame. A vintage embellished leather jacket that once belonged to someone notable—no idea who. “Sloan’s style is, uh… interesting.”
“Yeah, it’s different, for sure.”
“I think it’s called maximalism,” she said, taking it all in.
Matt couldn’t help it. He snorted. “Is that what they call cramming shit everywhere?”
“Fuck off, guitar boy.” Sloan elbowed him, themanicottihe precariously held nearly tumbling to the floor. “I embrace abundance, bold colors, textures, and an excess of accessories. It makes a statement, you know.”
“And what’s that?” Gina asked.
“More is more,” he said, unapologetically pretentious. “C’mere now, Trouble. I need a hug.”
“Why?”
“Because I don’t like people all that much, but I can tolerate you, so…” Sloan opened his arms and Gina went into them. “I lied. I really wanted to feel your tits smooshed against my chest.”
“Dick.” She giggled, smacking him.
“You know it.” Then, he dipped down to Matt’s ear. “Where’s the ring? I thought you were gonna ask her—”
And with a subtle shake of his head, he carried the tray into the kitchen while Gina went to say hello to the girls.
“You two all right?” Sloan asked once they were alone.
“Yeah, we’re good. I just have some shit I need to sort out first.”
And his eyebrow lifted. “If you say so.”
Matt took a seat at the impeccably set table, and holding Gina’s hand on his lap, he surveyed the room. Everyone he loved was gathered here. His band of brothers. His chosen family—and hadn’t they grown? Hell, they might have to pitch a tent in the yard next year to hold them all.
As noisy as the Rossi household, if not more so, food was passed, and glasses were filled amid a bounty of smiles, laughter, and animated chatter. Then, signaling the room to be quiet, Brendan stood. They weren’t the kind to make speeches or say grace, so his curiosity was piqued.
