It’s loud enough that I rear back, blinking in surprise.
“She’s so pretty when she laughs like that.” Carter sighs, abandoning me in the grass and heading toward his wife. He grabs her hand and pulls her to her feet before twirling her around, making her laugh harder.
I’ve always liked watching them like this. It tears me up inside, slashes through my chest when I think about the fact my mom never experienced that—she was never cherished. But forall the aching it causes, it makes me smile in equal measure—because at least love like that exists for others. Maybe not for my mom, and likely not for me—I’m too damaged—but Carter and Penelope are no less deserving.
I laugh to myself, shaking my head as I pass them and throw open the back door, pondering Carter’s comment. I’ve never thought of laughter aspretty.
Though, as I enter the house and soft, wistful chiming giggles envelop me—wrapping around my body like some kind of incandescent mist, akin to that of a long lost favorite song—I realize that perhaps laughtercanbe pretty after all. Beautiful, in fact.
I follow the music of her laugh down the hall, and Willow comes into view as I round the kitchen doorway. She’s standing against the counter rolling meatballs. A green apron covers the yellow sundress she’s wearing, and a high ponytail swings between her shoulder blades as she sways with laughter.
Leo stands over the stove, stirring a steaming pot of what I assume must be marinara sauce based on the garlic and oregano smell in the room and the box of spaghetti beside him on the counter. “I offered up the bottle because I knew once she finished her first glass, there’d be no chance she’d try to take over dinner prep.”
“Momknowsshe’s a terrible cook at this point. Why does she keep trying?” Willow asks, smiling as she shakes her head.
“People-pleasing tendencies. I’ve been trying to break them for about thirty years—” Leo turns, startling when he catches me in the doorway.
I realize I’ve been standing here, staring at them, with no attempt at making my presence known.
“Fuck, Wes. You scared me.”
“Sorry.” I wince.
Willow lifts her head, smiling wider when she spots me. “Hey.”
“Hey.” I wave awkwardly. “Sorry. I know you said seven, but Carter wanted to come by early, so...”
“Not a problem." Leo grins, dimples appearing on either side of his cheeks. A perfect match to Willow’s. “I’ll put you right to work.” He nods toward a bundle of lettuce on a cutting board beside Willow. “Can you make Caesar salad?”
I nod, stepping up beside her. There is a bottle of pre-made dressing beside the lettuce, but when I check over the ingredients, I frown. “Uh... would you mind if I took a shot at making my own dressing?”
Willow pauses, holding a ball of ground meat in her hand as she lifts her head and raises a brow at me. “You can make homemade salad dressing?”
“My mom was a cook.” I shrug. “I’m not terrible, I suppose.”
“Well, we sure as fuck can’t cook in this house, so I’m sure whatever you come up with won’t be worse than this sauce I just made,” Leo says, and as I glance at him over my shoulder, he tastes the marinara, wincing when it hits his tongue.
“I could probably help with that too.” I laugh. “If you’d like.”
“Have at it, kid.” He tosses the wooden spoon on the rest. “I’m going to get wine-drunk with my wife.”
“Oh! I have something for you.” After her dad leaves the kitchen, Willow leaps over to the sink, washing her hands before opening the fridge and pulling out a small, white paper box. “They’re fresh. Dahlia made them this morning.”
She extends the box toward me, popping open the lid to reveal four square pieces of bright yellow lemon bars, finely dusted with powdered sugar.
“Oh. I . . .”
Willow pouts, plucking a square from the box and nudging it at my lips. “Please, Wes.”
I could be deathly allergic to lemon, and even then, those wide blue eyes and puffy pink lips would convince me to risk it all.Dammit. I open my mouth slightly, just enough for her to slide half the dessert inside, allowing me to take a bite.
It’s flavorful and soft and crumbly. The perfect balance of sour lemon and sugar.
She grins when a moan slips past my lips. “See? I knew I’d convince you that you like sweets.”
“It’s not sweet. It’s tart.” I wink, tossing her a closed lip smile as I finish chewing.
She pouts again, brows knitting. “Whatever,” she huffs. “You still like it.”
