For once, I didn’t look away.
He lifted his brows. “This is how you chose to spend Thanksgiving?”
I shrugged.
“This is how I roll, papa.”
Isa made a choking sound beside me.
Everett blinked.
Beckett barked out a laugh.
Richard stared at me like I’d started speaking in tongues.
Good.
Let him wonder.
Let all of them wonder.
Isa slipped her hand into mine under the counter, hidden from them but not from me.
That was when I knew—I was in love with her.
Not because she looked good in my jersey.
Not because she kissed like she wanted to make the rules suffer.
Not because she made Richard blink and Beckett back up and Everett shut his mouth.
Because she had taken one look at the coldest place in my life and decided we were making it warm.
That was it.
That was the whole damn thing.
I loved her.
And I was absolutely screwed.
We stole one of Richard’s bottles of Bordeaux.
Stole might have been too strong a word. It was his house. His wine. His ridiculous temperature-controlled glass cabinet full of bottles that probably had insurance policies. But I opened one anyway because fuck it, if a bottle needed a trust fund, it deserved to be drunk with Publix turkey and a girl who made the world less terrible.
Isa watched me read the label.
Her eyes widened. “Drew.”
“What?”
“Do you know how expensive that is?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I know it’s red.”
