Page 45 of Out Of A Fix

“Yes.”

“Okay. Keep me in the loop.”

“I will. Swear.”

“Okay,” I said, taking a breath, feeling better. “Thank you.”

I thought he’d hang up, but he didn’t. “Bye,” I announced.

“As though you’re doing irreparable harm to them by being there, strong and steady, in their lives. Sounds terrible.”

Shaw was big on having the last word. “If they get any more attached and then I leave? Yeah, it will hurt them. Ask Benji if you don’t believe me.”

“Kids are resilient, you prick.”

“Nice.”

He hung up then.

“Nash?”

I turned to Tatum with her welling eyes, looking so wounded, and said the only thing I could think of. “We have to figure out what else we’re gonna have for Thanksgiving besides turkey. Should we have Griff make mashed potatoes?”

Instant change. Her eyes lit up, the spark back, and after brushing away tears, she wrapped her arms around my waist and pressed her face to my abdomen. The truth of the matter was, I was probably far more attached than she was. And how did that happen? I didn’t even like kids. Or cats. Ridiculous.

“What’s the matter with her?” Darwin wanted to know, walking over with a toothpick between his teeth and both hands covered with the new silicone oven mitts we bought.

“I’m fine now,” Tatum told him before squinting. “What’re you doing?”

“I want Nash to check if the muffins are done. I can’t tell.”

“Because of how big your muffins are—which is epic, by the way,” I praised him, and saw his immediate grin, “you’re gonna need to use a knife. The toothpick is too short.”

“Oh.” He returned to the kitchen and placed the muffins on a cooling rack—another new purchase—before carefully inserting a butter knife into a couple of them.

Griff, meanwhile, expertly stepped back as the flames in the pan shot up high, as though he were a waiter in a five-star restaurant and was getting his flambé on.

“What are you doing?” his father yelled, running into the kitchen. “Are you trying to get yourself⁠—”

“Stay back!” Griff roared at the precise moment the flames disappeared. “For crissakes, Dad, pieces of pork belly do that sometimes because of the fat, and there’s been bacon in here as well. I’m not an idiot.”

Luke stood there dumbfounded, and Griff stepped sideways and gestured for me. I moved over to him quickly, inspected the pan, saw that it appeared fine, under control, and then leaned against the counter, crossing my arms.

“Well, crap,” he muttered after a moment, and I smiled.

“What’d you do wrong?”

Griff let his head fall back on his shoulders as he stared at the ceiling. “I didn’t take the breath.”

“And?”

“I raised my voice.”

“Which sucks because?”

“Now I go back to zero on the board.”

“Yep,” I told him, “and you know what that means.”