“You don’t know that.”
“I know enough.” She stands on her toes and kisses my cheek. “Just be yourself. Well, maybe a slightly friendlier version of yourself.”
“Great.”
She opens the door without knocking and walks inside like she belongs here, which she does. I follow, feeling too big for the space, too rough for the soft carpet under my feet and the family photos lining the walls.
Two men are on the couch in the family room, beers in hand, a football game on the TV. They look up when we enter, and both of them stand.
The taller one grins at Sierra. “There’s my girl.”
“Hi, Dad.” She smiles and closes her eyes as he wraps her in his arms.
“You’ve got a lot of explaining to do,” he gripes, but there’s no real heat in it. Just fatherly concern wrapped in a gruff exterior.
Sierra steps back and returns to my side. Her shoulder brushes mine. “Dad, Uncle James, this is my fiancé, Matteo.”
Her dad’s grip is firm. Challenging. He’s trying to establish dominance, and I get it. I respect it, even. But I’m bigger, stronger, and it’s not in my nature to roll over just because he wants to test me. I meet his pressure with my own, steady and controlled.
His eyes narrow slightly.
The uncle tries the same thing. Same result.
Sierra’s watching with amusement, and I release James’s hand before this turns into a dick-measuring contest.
A woman appears from the kitchen. She has Sierra’s eyes. Sierra’s smile. Sierra in thirty years, and still beautiful.
“Oh,” the woman says, and then she’s moving toward me with her arms open. “I’m so happy to meet you.”
She hugs me.
I freeze.
My arms hang at my sides like dead weight because I don’t know what to do with this. Outside of my mother, and Sierra, I can’t remember the last time someone touched me with warmth instead of violence. And never this easily.
But Sierra’s mother is squeezing me like I’m already family.
“I’m Alicia.” She steps back. If she noticed my awkwardness, she doesn’t show it. “You can call me that. And my husband is Harold.”
Harold looks like he’d prefer I call him Mr. Dixon and keep my distance from his daughter, but he keeps his mouth shut.
“Come, come.” Alicia waves us toward the dining room. “Dinner’s almost ready. Sierra, set the table. Harold, get the water glasses. James, help me with the salad.”
They jump into action, and I’m left standing there like an idiot, not sure what to do with my hands.
The rest of the family arrives in a rush of noise and energy. Sierra’s two brothers, their wives, her cousin Audrey. I recognize her from the bar, and she gives me a look that says she recognizes me, too.
Within minutes, we’re all seated around a long table. Sierra’s on my right. Her brother Greg on my left. Her parents at opposite ends.
Everyone’s talking at once—questions flying, laughter filling the space—and it’s so loud, somuch, that I have to fight the urge to walk back outside.
This isn’t my world.
But Sierra’s hand finds my thigh under the table, and I stay.
I load my plate with roasted chicken and mashed potatoes. The food is good. Really good. And slowly, as the meal goes on, the knot in my stomach starts to loosen.
Sierra’s brother Julian tells a story about shipping turtle eggs. Some kind of rescue operation after an oil spill. His wife, Harper, watches him like he hung the moon. His parents listen with pride. Even Audrey, who seems to have a permanent chip on her shoulder, laughs at the right parts.
