“She steamrolls everyone.”
He chuckled, the sound soft but warm. “I don’t mind.”
“But you said you don’t really do family holidays.”
His expression shifted. “Not in a while.”
I handed him a towel. Our fingers brushed.
Too long.
Too warm.
Too familiar.
My stupid heart skipped.
“It’s really low-key,” I babbled. “No egg hunts. No massive church things. Just eating and talking and… eating.”
“I can handle eating,” he said dryly.
“Good. Because my mom made enough candied carrots to feed a herd of elk.”
He smiled again, slower this time, and something fluttered stupidly in my stomach as if it were figuring out the world of physics.
We stepped into the dining room, where no sign of the goat remained, and Violet and Fifi were pretending to play with pastel banners shaped like abstract rabbits that looked more like lumpy clouds. The table was partially set, napkins mismatched, candles crooked, plates already slightly askew.
Carson took it all in with an expression I couldn’t read fully. It was something between nostalgia and bewilderment. Something that tugged at me unexpectedly.
“I haven’t been in a house like this in a long time,” he said quietly.
“What do you mean?” I asked.
He shrugged one shoulder. “Just… a place full of noise. People. Chaos. Holidays.”
My breath softened. “Do you miss it?”
His eyes flicked to mine.
A moment.
A truth.
Unspoken, but there.
“Sometimes,” he murmured.
Before I could answer, Violet called, “Carson! Come taste test the deviled eggs!”
He blinked. “I’m… not qualified for that.”
“You are if you have a mouth,” she declared.
Violet grinned like she’d engineered it on purpose.
Carson stepped toward the table, and I followed, because apparently my ability to stay more than three feet away from him had evaporated.
He reached for an egg, and my mom rushed in. “Not that one! That one has extra paprika. Fifi made it. It’s practically a booby trap.”
