The women don’t hear a word I’ve said, but they instantly stop their bickering when Sunny lands a solid punch to my back, a knee to my stomach, and yells, “You’re not my dad! Dexter is my dad, you dummy!”
I drop the little shit. Because, obviously.
“What did you just say?” Alis whispers, eyes watering and face so lit up with happiness I could puke.
Please. Nobody rush to help or even notice the man doubled over and out of breath from being assaulted by the four-foot-ten-inch tyrant.
Dex enters the kitchen and claps a hand on my shoulder, not reading the room whatsoever. “Why is everyone so quiet?” he asks, looking from me, to Alis, then Sunny, and back to Alis.
“And why are you crying, love?” He can see that her tears are not from sadness, so he doesn’t rush to comfort her. Instead, he wraps an arm around Sunny’s shoulders and ruffles her hair, leaning down to whisper, “You know she’s staring at you, right?”
Sunny looks up at him and nods. “Yeah. I know. I said the dad thing.”
“Ah,” Dexter acknowledges, not at all surprised by this revelation—the complete opposite of Alis. “I thought we were going to talk about that as a family before you started saying it in front of people?”
Huffing out a breath, Sunny rolls her eyes before gesturing toward me. “That was the plan, until this loser walked in the kitchen and said, ‘Daddy’s home’ like some gross old mall Santa and, I don’t know. It just slipped out.”
“Slipped out,” Dexter laughs.
“Someone had to put him in his place,” she shrugs. “Especially after he made me lose my race. Again.”
Before I can fire back, Alis’s parents appear from the direction of the den like reinforcements. Julia spreads her arms, all warmth, perfume, and holiday cheer.
“Leo, darling, you made it!”
Finally. The recognition I deserve.
“Mama Gilmore,” I throw my arms wide and step into her embrace. “At last! Someone in this house appreciates me.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Tori groans.
“Too late,” Skye adds.
Jim chuckles and pushes his way through the mess of bodies crowding the kitchen, heading straight for the turkey and muttering something about quality control.
And just like that, the chaos resumes. The kitchen fills with clatter and chatter, Skye and Tori bicker over who’s in charge of the potatoes, Alis wields her dishtowel like a weapon, Sunny and Otis zoom past every few minutes—I still don’t understand how that girl hasn’t broken an arm, or her neck, running through this house—and Dexter makes the heroic save of the stuffing tray before it burns.
I slide into the rhythm of it, grabbing a pack of dinner rolls from the counter and tearing the plastic with my thumb. The kitchen’s packed shoulder-to-shoulder, so I start arranging the rolls into a basket, making them look more presentable than “straight from the bag.”
I claim counter space beside Tori, who’s furiously whisking like the fate of Thanksgiving depends on her wrist strength.
“Need a spotter?” I ask, nudging a roll into place like it’s fine art.
She side-eyes me, whisk still flying. “You’ll just start punning about peaks and slopes again.”
“True.” I dip closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “But honestly? I’d rather watch you whisk than listen to Skye butcher another O-Town lyric.”
Her lips twitch, betraying the laugh she’s trying to bury. “Careful, Euler. You’re dangerously close to charming.”
I hold up the basket like I’ve performed a miracle. “Please. These rolls look homemade. I deserve a medal.”
She glances over, unimpressed. “You opened a bag.”
“And elevated the presentation.” I grin. “That’s called flair, Foster.”
“As Sunny would say, ‘delulu is your solulu.’” She bumps my hip with hers, still whisking. “But sure. Keep telling yourself you contributed.”
The contact is brief. Just a bump. Just a tease. But the heat lingers like she left a match pressed to my side.
