I let the silence stretch, lean in just enough for my shoulder to brush hers as I glance into the bowl. “You always whisk this hard, or is today special?”
She snorts, catching the innuendo immediately. “It’s mashed potatoes, Leo.”
“I’m just saying…” My grin is shameless. “If there were an Olympic category for wrist stamina?—”
“Stop.” Her cheeks flush, but she’s smiling now, teeth biting into her bottom lip like she can hold back the laugh.
I set the basket down, fingers tapping against the handle of the whisk instead, deliberately grazing hers. “Tell me to go and I will.”
She doesn’t tell me to go. Instead, her hand stills for half a beat, then she keeps whisking, slower this time. Her shoulder brushes mine again, maybe by accident, maybe not.
“Fine,” she mutters. “You can stay. Quietly.”
“Quietly is not my strong suit.” I pitch my voice lower, leaning close enough that her brunette waves graze my jaw. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”
Her breath catches, just enough for me to notice. She doesn’t move away.
“Don’t read into this,” she says, eyes fixed on the bowl.
“Oh, I’m reading into everything.”
Her laugh comes out shaky, and when she finally risks a glance at me, it’s loaded—she knows exactly what we’re doing—and exactly how much trouble we’re both in.
“Scootch, hootch.” Skye wedges in between us, obliterating the moment.
“You forgot the cheese!” she whines, her tone drenched in accusation.
Tori grabs the bowl of potatoes and spins away from Skye, keeping it just out of reach. “Don’t you fuck with my potatoes, woman!”
I knew they were arguing about the potatoes earlier, but I didn’t realize the argument had become so heated.
“You know,” Dexter says, stepping up beside me while we watch two grown-ass women engrossed in a game of keep-away, “they could have just made two different types of mashed potatoes.”
I nod in agreement. “Sound logic. But, women.”
The crack of the dishtowel sounds a millisecond before my left asscheek lights on fire. “The fuck?!” I spin just in time to see Alis locked and loaded to deliver another lashing to my backside.
“Women? Are you kidding me right now?” She pops the towel once more but misses, and before she can try again I push Dexter in front of me like a shield. He’s too busy laughing to offer any real assistance or come to my defense, so I leave him to handle his fiancée, twisting and ducking my way through women and bowls and Julia pulling a pie out of the oven before I finally make it into the front hall.
Am I in the clear? Of course not. Because right as I think I’ve avoided all possible collisions I hear a high-pitched squeal, a bark, and then I’m airborne—tumbling sideways through the open bonus room door in a tangle of fur and claws and screaming eleven-year-old.
And thank fuck for this giant bean bag.
Dinner is done,the last of the pie plates scraped clean, the kitchen a battlefield of dirty dishes and half-empty wine glasses. Inside, the noise keeps rolling—football commentary, women laughing over coffee, Sunny and Otis still tearing through the halls like caffeinated maniacs.
Isn’t the tryptophan supposed to knock that kid out at some point?
Out here on the back porch, it’s quiet.
Cold air bites at my cheeks, sharp with pine and woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Dexter sets two heavy tumblers and a bottle of whiskey on the porch rail, then fishes two cigars from his shirt pocket and offers me the matchbook.
“You want the first light?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nah. You’re the host.”
He grins, tucks a cigar between his lips, and strikes the match. The flame flares, then dims as he pulls. I light mine and wait until the end glows. The first draw is familiar—smoke and burn, a ritual. The whiskey chases it down, smooth enough to make me sigh.
For a while we stand shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing, watching our breath curl into the dark.
