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“Do you talk at all?” Beckett asks around a mouthful of cinnamon roll.

“Yeah,” Lawson says. “Just not like we used to. And we don’t hang out like we did.”

Oh, I so want to fix this.

And it does not take a psychiatrist to figure out why.

I look at my brother, who is now pouring a glass of milk. I can’t imagine my life without Beckett. We got close through trauma and tragedy, but our bond is strong, and he means the world to me.

Things are rockier with our parents, and especially with our stepdad. We’re not close to our stepbrother and sister, who are nearly twenty years younger than us and who we only see two or three times a year, and that bothers me. And neither Beckett nor I handles everything perfectly all the time, but at least we have each other.

“Well, now that you’ve come around to bonkers hockey, you should invite your mom and sister down to see a game,” I say. “We could do something special that night if we knew they were going to be here.”

Lawson shakes his head quickly. “Oh, they wouldn’t want any special attention.”

So, that runs in the family. “Well, you should still invite them,” I encourage.

“Maybe,” he says noncommittally.

“Does your sister make you casseroles?” Beckett asks, finishing off his milk.

Lawson gives a soft chuckle. “She does not.”

Beckett looks at me as he asks Lawson, “Does your mom?”

“Yeah. Sometimes. She’s a good cook. I miss her food.”

“And how’s the food this person is bringing over to your house?” Beckett asks.

I find myself holding my breath. I so want him to like it. I want it to be amazing, something that makes him feel good and smile. I want him to look forward to it when he gets home from work and has that waiting for him.

I love to cook. It was something my mom and I did when I was growing up, and it was what I took over when my sister was born to help Mom out. Then when Mara got sick, cooking and baking became my way of comforting and taking care of my family.

It stuck. It’s now my love language toward everyone.

So I really want Lawson to like my cooking.

“Amazing actually,” Lawson tells us. “It’s all been delicious and I look forward to it.”

I grip the counter and tell myself not to react.

Beckett looks at me. “Sutton is a great cook,” he says. “She is better than our mom, who is also great. Nothing like having a great meal at the end of the long day, right?”

Lawson’s gaze finds me. “For sure.”

He doesn’t know it’s you, I remind myself even as his response rocks through me.

“So we don’t want to scare off my stalker,” Beckett says. “Or yours,” he adds with a grin. “Let’s just both enjoy it.”

Lawson sighs. “Just one camera. I’m putting one up too.”

What? A camera? Great. Just great. Brewser needs to shut this stuff down.

“Okay, fine,” Beckett agrees. “One camera on the porch.”

“Awesome.” Lawson pushes up from his seat at the table.

As he stretches to his full height, I’m amazed at how much space he seems to take up. I’m only five-three, and he’s easily a foot taller. My brother is also tall. About six-two, and his large personality always makes him seem bigger. But having Lawson in our cozy little kitchen is a different experience. I am aware of everything from his slightly curly, dark hair that I don’t think has ever seen a speck of hair gel to how long and thick his fingers are to how big his feet are against the pale blue linoleum.