Everett.
Then Beckett.
Then Richard’s lower voice.
Isa’s arms slipped from my waist, but she stayed close.
The three of them entered from the patio hall and stopped.
All at once.
The kitchen looked insane compared to the rest of the house. Counters covered. Oven on. Store-brand cranberry sauce in a bowl. Rolls under a towel. Isa barefoot near the island. Me holding a baster like a weapon.
Everett looked around slowly.
“Well,” he said. “This is domestic.”
Beckett’s grin spread. “Did Publix throw up in here?”
Richard said nothing.
That was worse.
His gaze moved over the grocery bags, the open wine drawer, the butter on the counter, Isa’s bare feet, my hand at her lower back.
I waited for shame to hit.
It didn’t.
Not even a little.
Maybe because the kitchen smelled like my mother.
Maybe because Isa was standing beside me.
Maybe because for the first time all day, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Beckett wandered closer and lifted the edge of the foil over the turkey.
“Save me a drumstick?”
“Not likely,” I said.
Everett laughed. “Still selfish.”
“Still hungry.”
Beckett looked at Isa. “You cook?”
She smiled. “Better than you behave, I’m guessing.”
Everett made a soft sound of appreciation.
Beckett’s grin turned sharper. “Oh, I like her.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
Richard’s eyes moved to me.
