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On the shelf, Mr. Jingles smiles at me. I swear to God he looks smug.
“Creepy bastard,” I mutter.
“Daddy?”
I look down. Shiloh is staring at me.
“What?”
“Are you coming?”
“Yes.” He takes my hand, and I follow him out of the office.
I do not look at Noelle’s ass again.
Mostly because she’s already gone.
chapter
twelve
Maverick
Shortly after we all arrived back downstairs, Dottie announced that now that I was back, she was going back to her cottage. Her cottage is on grounds. When I’m out of town, she stays in the ‘big house’ as she calls it. So now it’s just me, my son and my wife.
We eat at the round table in the breakfast nook instead of the dining room, because apparently that’s what we do now. Outside the bay window, the light is gone, and the first real snow of the season has started drifting past the glass in fat, lazy flakes. Through the doorway, I can see the tree in the great room, glowing.
There are candles on the table. Not tasteful ones. Red ones, shaped like Christmas trees, slightly melted on one side.
Shiloh is in a booster seat that I don’t recognize, kicking the table leg in a slow, contented rhythm.
Dinner is lasagna. Though noticeably not the lasagna Dottie usually makes.
I know this because when I take my first bite, I nearly moan. I stop chewing.
It’s richer than Dottie’s. More garlic. Something sweet in the sauce, and the edges of the noodles crisp and almost caramelized, the way they get when the pan’s been in the oven just a little too long on purpose.
It tastes like someone’s perfected recipe.
Noelle notices. “Is it bad?”
I look across the table.
She’s changed her clothes, which is unfortunate, because the sweater and leggings were bad enough.
Now she’s wearing jeans and a soft green shirt with a neckline that— Eyes. Look at her eyes.
“No.”
Her forehead wrinkles. “No, it’s not bad, or no, you don’t like it?”
“It’s good.”
“Oh.”
“Really good. Best lasagna I’ve ever had, actually.”
She beams. “It’s my Grandma’s recipe.”
