Page 56

My heart pounds like it knows a storm’s coming.

And maybe it is.

But Kingston’s still here, his thumb rubbing circles against my skin like it’s a spell, like he’s trying to magic away the past.

And maybe… maybe that’s enough to keep me grounded.

Even when the ground beneath me starts to crack.

We pull into the circular driveway, tires crunching softly against the stone like the house is exhaling its own kind of welcome—or maybe it’s a warning. Hard to tell with places like this. Grand and ghosted by old memories.

The house is exactly as I remember it: palatial, sprawling, the kind of place that makes your lungs expand just from looking at it. Three stories of old money and quiet intimidation, all framed by symmetrical landscaping and white-trimmed windows that catch the gray Massachusetts sky like framed ghosts. The stone exterior is stately, weather-worn but regal, the kind of structure that wasn’t built—it was established. Like it came with a legacy and a prenup.

I stare up at it, heart thudding. The anxiety sinks its claws deeper.

Kingston notices. Of course he does. He squeezes my hand across the center console. “You sure about this?”

“No.” My voice cracks on the word. “But I think I have to be.”

It’s been years since I came home. Years since I’ve been back to this house. Not since everything cracked and crumbled and I chose myself instead. My dad moving back into the same zip code as my mom? That was a plot twist I didn’t see coming. Especially not after all the ways they broke each other—and us—in the fallout.

But he invited us. And I said yes. Or maybe I said okay. It feels the same in his eyes.

The front door swings open before Kingston even kills the engine, and there he is—my dad—already waiting on the patio like he’s been pacing since sunrise. Dressed in slacks and a fitted black sweater that hugs his still-broad shoulders, he looks every inch the owner of an NFL team and none of the man who used to fall asleep on the couch in a worn Patriots hoodie with a half-eaten grilled cheese on his chest.

But his face lights up when he sees me.

“There’s my girl,” he says, making his way down the front steps with the kind of confident stride only a man used to walking locker room hallways can pull off. He doesn’t stop until he’s wrapping me in a hug that smells like Tom Ford and memories I don’t let myself visit too often. “Damn, sweetheart,” he murmurs against my hair, “look at you.”

I pull back and roll my eyes, but it’s a useless defense. His gaze drops to my belly and he whistles low. “You weren’t kidding. That baby bump is doing numbers.”

“Twins,” I remind him, not that he’s forgotten.

He smirks. “Guess I better start prepping my backyard for a mini combine in ten years.”

I snort. “You sound like Kingston.”

My dad glances over my shoulder at the man in question and smiles wide. “Good to see you, son.” He pulls Kingston into the same kind of hug, all firm palms and back slaps and that subtle fatherly approval you don’t get unless you’ve earned it. “Glad you could come.”

“Thanks for having us,” Kingston replies.

“Come on, let’s get you inside. Everyone’s already heading to the dining room—your brothers are probably halfway through the bread basket by now.”

I catch Kingston’s smirk as we follow my dad up the steps, through the massive double doors, and into a foyer that still smells like lemon polish and holiday tension. My stomach tightens.

The house is warm. Familiar in a way that makes my bones ache. There’s music playing faintly from somewhere—something classical and expensive—and the chandelier above the entryway glints like it knows too much.

We barely make it down the hall before two familiar voices call out from the formal dining room.

“Holy hell, look at that belly!” Carlos, my oldest brother, grins from where he’s perched at the head of the table.

“You sure you’re not carrying a whole offensive line in there?” Franky adds, already crossing the room to wrap me up in a hug.

I groan and wave them off. “You two are exhausting.”

“And you’re glowing,” Carlos shoots back, pulling me into his arms. “Seriously. You look good, kid.”

Franky gives me a one-armed hug and a wink. “What’s it like growing your own football team?”