Chloe’s attention darted to Jeremy, and her whole face lit up like she’d spotted Santa Claus. “Wow, I love your tattoos. It’s like a coloring book!”
“Thanks,” he grumbled.
I smirked and clapped him on the back. “Come on, man,” I said under my breath, nodding toward the inside of the house. “Let’s get you to the table before she asks if you glow in the dark.”
He muttered, “I hate kids,” but followed me anyway.
40
luna
I didn’t even know where to start. The table was packed so full, it looked like a county fair had exploded across the tablecloth. There was a giant crock of cheesy hashbrown casserole, golden crust from the cornflakes baked on top. Then a bowl of something pale and gloopy that turned out to be “frog eye salad,” its little pasta pearls floating in a suspiciously sweet custard with pineapple chunks. There were dinner rolls big enough to use as pillows, a green bean casserole smothered in cream-of-something soup, and a glistening pink “salad” molded into a ring, dotted with what I think were maraschino cherries.
I took a little of everything because I wasn’t sure what was safe and what would offend someone if I didn’t try it.
I leaned toward Jer. “This is still better than that time we tried to eat corn straight off the stalk before it was ripe.”
His lips twitched. “At least that didn’t have marshmallows in it.”
I scooped a bite of the frog eye salad just to prove a point. “Oh, hush. Builds character. Besides, it’s kind of good.”
“Luna, that is not good. That’s a war crime in a bowl.”
I snorted, almost choking on my bite. “You’re such a food snob.”
“Snob? No,” he muttered, spearing a dinner roll and tearing it apart. “I just like my pasta not pretending to be dessert.”
I bumped his elbow with mine. “You’re surviving.”
Dirks was mid-conversation with his mom, but his hand found my thigh under the table. My fork stilled for half a second before I kept eating.
“So, Jeremy, how do you know Dirks?”
Oh,goodie. I hid my smirk behind another bite of casserole. This was it. The moment the real family drama might start to simmer.
Before Jer could even answer Dirks’s mom, Tom piped up from across the table.
“I bet you’re a hockey player. You look like one.”
I cocked my head toward him, my fork pausing halfway to my mouth. “And how exactly does onelooklike a hockey player?”
Tom’s smile faltered, and he shifted in his chair. “Oh, I didn’t mean it like?—”
“No, no.” I rested my chin on my palm, eyes still on him. “I think I’d like to hear what you have to say, Tom.”
There was a beat of uncomfortable silence before he finally muttered, “The tattoos.”
“Uh-huh.”
His mother, bless her, looked like she was ready to jump in and smooth things over before it got tense. She really was lovely, and I knew she and Dirks were close—the kind of mom who still called him “my boy” without irony. His dad sat at the opposite end of the table and set his fork down.
“You used to play?”
“Yeah, I played for the Ravens for a bit. I’m younger than Dirks, but I left the league early.”
I slid my hand under the tablecloth, finding his thigh. I gave it a slow squeeze—not enough for anyone else to notice, but enough to make his jaw flex. He shot me a quick glare, the kind that meantknock it off, but I caught the way his shoulders loosened just a little. He hated it.
He loved it.
