“This is from Pres,” I tell Mom, thrusting the present at her.
“You didn’t need to do this,” Mom says, taking the large package. “But thank you. It’s most thoughtful.”
“I made it myself,” Presley says, and I arch a brow. She wouldn’t tell me what it was. “I hope you like it.”
“Presley is an amazing artist,” I tell my parents.
“Then I can’t wait to see what this is.”
I deliberately hold Presley back, letting my parents walk ahead. “I didn’t mention that things are strained between me and Keaton because it’s complicated,” I say, only being half truthful. I’ve had plenty of opportunities to tell her about the rift with my brother, but I’ve purposely held back because I promised I wouldn’t lie to her and I’m not ready to tell her the real reason we’re not talking. “I’m just mentioning it in case things get tense.”
She frowns a little. “Okay.”
“Oh, my word,” Mom exclaims from the living room just as we enter the large space. My nephew Hewson is helping her remove the wrapping from Presley’s present, eagerly tearing at the silver paper, throwing it on the ground. At seven—eight next month—Lana and Kalvin’s firstborn is the eldest grandchild, and Mom spoils him rotten. “This is exquisite, Presley.”
Every head in the room turns in our direction, and I feel for my girl. She clings to my hand so tight I wonder if any blood flow can get through.
“I’m glad you think so.” She holds her head up, smothering her nerves, and warmth spreads across my chest. I love how much of a fighter she is. I know this is stretching her out of her comfort zone, and the fact she’s willing to do this for me blows my mind. I must have done something right in my messed-up life to deserve a woman like her.
Mom holds the white-framed glass box aloft, and my brothers and sisters-in-law all huddle around, oohing and ahhing. It’s striking. Presley has drawn a phoenix—similar to the one inked on my skin—and filled it in with red, yellow, and gold dried flowers.
“Are these pressed flowers?” Mom asks.
“Yes. I’ve been pressing all the flowers Kent sends me and making art with them. I don’t like throwing anything away, especially something so pretty.”
My nephew Cathal wriggles in Kyler’s arms as my brother turns to face us with a big smug smirk on his face. “Kent has been sending you flowers, huh?”
“Yes.” Presley’s brows knit together as she glances between me and my brother, unsure if she’s said something wrong.
“How romantic,” Kalvin adds, rubbing a hand across his chest. “How long have you two been dating again?” he asks, turning the full extent of his charm on Presley.
“A few weeks,” she confirms.
“And you’re pussy-whipped already.” Kalvin slaps me on the back. “Hah. Payback is a bitch, bro.” He rubs his hands in glee. “This dinner just got infinitely more entertaining.” He slides his arm around Presley’s shoulder. “I want to hear everything.”
Presley laughs, and I know she gets it because I told her I gave my brothers crap for years.
“Fuck off,” I hiss, yanking Presley away from him. “Go paw at your own woman.”
A chorus of chuckles rings out around the room.
“Pay up,” Keven says, eyeballing Kaden. Cheryl—Kev’s wife—rolls her eyes. Those two are always betting on ridiculous shit, and the rest of my idiot brothers usually wade in too. It’s family tradition at this stage.
“You owe me,” Kade says, drilling me with a look as he slaps a hundred-dollar bill into Kev’s palm.
“I owe you shit.”
“Kent!” Faye shrieks, blocking Ciara’s ears. “Watch your language!” Ciara and Cathal are Ky and Faye’s boisterous twins. I haven’t seen them in ages, and they’ve gotten much bigger. They turn two next month, and it’s hard to believe. All the kids are growing up so fast.
“You do know you have zero chance of keeping little ears protected from cussing in this house, right?” Lana says, rubbing chocolate off her three-year-old daughter Hayley’s mouth.
“You’re the dumbass who made that stupid bet,” Keaton says to Kade. “I told you Kent would be the most romantic one as soon as he found the right girl.” He smiles at me, and I grind my teeth.
I know he means well, and it’s his way of extending an olive branch, but every time I look at him with Austen, animosity flares. Pressing my lips tight, I contain the snarl forming on my tongue. Tension filters into the air, and my instinct is to grab Presley, turn on my heels, and hightail it back to Boston.
“You look so much like Kent and Keanu,” Presley says, smiling at Keaton as she attempts to cut through the strained atmosphere.
“I used to think that when I first moved here,” Faye says, letting Ciara down so she can run off with the other kids. “But once you get to know the triplets, you’ll see the differences.” She walks to Presley, thrusting out her hand. “I’m Faye. Nice to meet you.”
