Paxton grins and hops down to answer it. Allison Lopez stands on the porch, one hip cocked, holding a large wooden bowl covered in foil.
She’s in charcoal-gray sweats, hair pulled into a messy ponytail, cheeks flushed, skin faintly damp. Fresh from a workout/training session. She smells like sweat and perfume.
“I brought greens,” she says brightly, holding up the bowl proudly, stepping inside. “Because I know none of you were going to.”
“That is painfully accurate,” I say.
Anthony freezes mid-stir. Allison catches his look and smiles at him, warm and amused. He nearly drops the spoon. Paxton tilts her head, studying the room, then nods to herself.
We are content, hungry, and happy. Even I can feel that. Paxton, being an empath, no doubt feels it off the charts. Probably why she’s smiling. She’s also part of a real family for the first time in her life. I can feel her joy, too. Probably because I’m a psychic vampire, though I’m not particularly psychic,though I can get a good handle on a person’s energy, just before I siphon it, heh heh.
“Allison,” Anthony says, voice cracking just a hair. “Um, hi.”
“Hi, chef,” she says. “Something smells amazing.”
His ears go red. Tammy notices. Of course she does.
“Allison just finished training someone,” Paxton announces. “Like, brutally.”
“I was gentle,” Allison protests. “Mostly.”
She sets the salad on the glass table and stretches, arms over her head. Anthony looks away, clearly affected. Then the door opens again. This time, Kingsley Fulcrum steps in, jacket slung over one arm, briefcase in the other, looking tired but satisfied. His tie is loosened, long hair a little rumpled, amber-tinted eyes sharp as ever.
He holds up a cardboard carrier. “I come bearing libations.”
I peer inside. “That better not be domestic.”
“Micro-brew,” he says. “Small batch. Imported hops. One of these cost more than your TV.”
Tammy’s eyes light up. “Can I try one?”
“One sip,” he says. “Under strict supervision.”
Allison smiles at him a little too brightly. “Long day?”
“Was in court,” he says. “Won.”
“Of course you did,” she says, and there it is. The slight lean. The tone just a shade softer. But Kingsley doesn’t notice. He’s already setting the beers on the table, inspecting the labels. But I notice; I always do.
Dinner comes together quickly after that. Anthony plates the spaghetti with ceremony, insisting everyone wait until he’s finished grating the cheese. Allison tosses the salad with practiced flicks of her wrists. Tammy sets the table. Paxton arranges napkins with great care.
We squeeze into the small dining room, knees bumping, chairs scraping, laughter overlapping. Anthony sits across fromAllison and barely eats his own food, watching her reaction like it’s a solemn verdict.
“This is ridiculously good,” she announces after the first bite. “Anthony, this is restaurant-level, heck Michelin-level.”
He beams. “Really?”
“Really.”
Paxton smiles at him with pride and a little awe.
Kingsley takes a sip of his beer and nods appreciatively. “Well done, lad.”
That seals it. Conversation flows easily. Kingsley recounts his case in broad strokes. Allison talks about a client who cried during planks. Tammy chimes in with fairy-witch gossip. Paxton comments on everyone’s mood like a quiet weather report.
I sit back, sipping my Coke, watching them all. No secrets. No walls. Just a house full of people who know exactly who the others are and love them anyway. This is my family.
For tonight, at least, the world can wait.
