“This looks incredible,” Darby says as we all grab plates and dig in. The kitchen is quiet while everybody chews. After a beat I nudge her, determined to get our plan back on track.
“Guess you didn’t get your cooking skills from your mom.” I have no idea if she can cook or not, but it feels like an appropriately dickish thing to say.
Unfortunately, it works a little too well, and Clint throws his head back in laughter.
“That’s what I always tell her. She’s never going to keep a man if she doesn’t up her cooking game. Roast him a chicken! Bake lemon bars! Best way to a man’s heart is through his stomach.”
Darby slouches over her plate, her expression souring. “It’s not the 1960s anymore. Men can cook too. Women also have full-time jobs, you know.”
Oh hell. The instinct to defend Darby swells, but I’ve got ground to make up. I sling a possessive arm around her neck and pull her against my side.
“Just do what you can to keep me satisfied, and maybe I’ll keep you around into the new year.”
Her body’s rigid, so I release her quickly, vowing to apologize to her later for bringing it up. But it does create an awkward break in the conversation that has her dad taking his empty plate to the sink and her mom hopping up to clean off the stovetop. With them both occupied, I lean closer to her and whisper, “I actually do a mean lasagna. Let me make it for you sometime.”
She pulls away in surprise, and honestly I’m a little unsure of where that came from myself. We haven’t talked about any post-Christmas plans. Presumably she goes on with her life and I go on with mine.
As I’m starting to imagine ways to keep Darby around after this week, a pleased little smile spreads across her face. “Did you hear that, Mom and Dad? Gabe just offered to make dinner for everyone tomorrow.”
CHAPTEREIGHT
Darby
“Things could be going better.”
We’re in my bedroom changing into our pajamas after dinner—a dinner where Gabe mostly communicated in monosyllabic grunts, as he’d been doing all afternoon—and I feel like a coach offering post-game analysis.
“Yeah, I’ll try harder,” he says.
Dinner wasn’t pleasant, but it wasn’t really the disaster I clearly need to get my parents to stop nitpicking my dating prospects. We’ve got to up our game because right now, my dad’s in danger of offering to drive to Beaucoeur next weekend to help Gabe buff out the dings on his magical truck.
“When’s your brother get here?” he asks. “Maybe I could challenge him to a fight.”
“What, like a physical brawl?”
Our backs are to each other while we change, and I resist the urge to look over my shoulder. The close quarters are tough enough without sneaking a peek, but the whisper of clothes going on and off his body is driving me nuts. And knowing that if I just turned around…
“A brawl on the St. Claire front lawn,” he says thoughtfully, pulling me away from my lust-filled thoughts. “It’ll be a Christmas the neighbors’ll never forget.”
“Absolutely not. Grinch Grinch Grinchy Grinch to that.”
“Fine,” he says. “You decent?”
“Yep.” I turn to face him, and I snort when I see the redbirds all over his lounge pants. “Wait, are you secretly a Cardinals fan?”
“Hell no. But I’m dressing for the job I want.”
He grins at me, and my breath catches in my throat. Gabe with a lazy smile is even sweeter than Mom’s snickerdoodle. I blink a few times, needing to collect my wits before I can reply.
“The job you want is to be my dad’s number one enemy?”
“If that’s what it takes.” He holds his hand out. “Shall we?”
I slip my fingers through his, enjoying the warmth of his palm a little too much, and we head downstairs to the TV room, where my parents are in their his-and-hers recliners, waiting on us to fire up a movie. My mom’s got some quilt squares on her lap, and my dad sighs loudly when he realizes Gabe's dressed head-to-toe in Cardinals wear again.
“Good thing baseball’s not in season,” he mutters, and Gabe quirks a brow as we settle onto the couch.
“With some of the Cubs’ trades recently? Yeah, I can see why you’d want to put off playing actual games.”
