SIENNA
I stared at my water glass, praying the heat in my cheeks would disappear. I could still feel Brock’s eyes on me from across the wooden table. So I did the only thing I could: I focused on my plate.
Luckily, the food was the perfect distraction. I had not eaten since that stale granola bar at O’Hare.
When Wren had shown me to the guest room earlier, I had only wanted to collapse face-first onto the mattress. Instead, she had hooked her arm through mine and dragged me back toward the stairs.
“You have to come down for dinner. It’s the rules,” she had said. “Also, never leave your shoes near the stairs unless you want Moose to steal them. But mostly, the dinner thing.”
The roast chicken—steaming next to a mountain of buttery potatoes and fresh rolls—tasted better than anything I'd had in weeks. The skin was crisp and salted, and the meat was practically melting off the bone when I cut into it.
The table was loud, filled with the clatter of silverware against ceramic.
“I’m telling you, Dad, it’s the O-ring,” Wyatt said. He spooned potatoes onto Maisie’s plate and cut them into small pieces.
“It’s not,” Silas replied, passing the gravy boat down the line. “The intake valve is shot. We need to order a new one.”
“I’ll look at it tomorrow,” Brock rumbled.
“Just don’t break it worse,” Colt said, earning a scowl from his brother.
I tore open a warm roll. The butter melted into the soft crumb as my knife spread across it. When I finally glanced up, I locked eyes with Brock. He looked away immediately and went back to eating.
Silas caught me staring blankly at my plate. He nudged the serving dish toward me. “You want more chicken, sweetheart?”
Funny. When Brock had called me sweetheart, I'd wanted to throw one of my heels at his head, since that was the only weapon I had on me. Coming from his dad, it didn't bother me at all.
"I'd love some more," I said.
He placed another piece of chicken on my plate: a crisp, golden thigh glistening with butter and herbs. Steam curled up to meet my face.
Maisie had been quiet through most of dinner, but I could tell she was listening to everything. She was right next to me, her small legs swinging under her chair.
“Sienna?” she asked.
“Yeah?”
“What does your hair look like?”
The question caught me off guard.
“It’s brown,” I said. “Kind of like milk chocolate. And wavy.”
"Can I touch it?"
Wyatt glanced at me. “She doesn’t have to.”
“Of course you can.” I leaned down a little. “Go ahead.”
Maisie’s fingers found my shoulder first, then my neck, then my hair. She grabbed a handful and squeezed gently.
“It’s thick.” Her hands moved slowly from the crown of my head down to the ends, exploring the curls at the bottom. “And curly.”
She kept going, both hands now, petting it down. I sat still and let her explore.
“It’s almost as thick as a horse’s tail,” she said.
A ripple of laughter went around the table.
