CHAPTER fifty-four #2
"And," he goes on, "I didn't get the chance to talk to him man-to-man last time since it wasn't exactly the appropriate moment."
I cover my face. "Dad..."
"What?" he says, all fake innocence. "I need to ask him questions."
Mom pats my back like she's comforting a soldier being deployed. "He means interrogate."
"I mean assess his worthiness," Dad corrects, pointing at both of us. "It's my fatherly duty."
I laugh and lean into him. "Dad, he's Zach. You've known him since we were kids."
He narrows his eyes. "Exactly. I've known him as the boy you grew up with. The boy who snuck in and out of your bedroom so much he fell off the balcony and broke his arm. And the boy who ate all my barbecue ribs and blamed it on raccoons."
"Franklin..." Mom shakes her head, but she's smiling.
"Nope," he cuts in, raising a stern Dad Finger. "A boy can be the neighbor kid. A boy can be the best friend. But when a boy becomes the boyfriend..." He pokes my arm. "I need to update his file."
I blink at him. "Update his file? What file?"
"The one I've been keeping since you were born," he says, dead serious. "Color-coded. Tabs. A whole system."
Mom swats his shoulder. "You're going to scare her."
"He's not scaring me," I mutter. "He's just being dramatic."
Dad pulls me in again, hugging me tight like when I was little. "Princess," he murmurs, "when Zach shows up later, tell him to be ready. I'm warming up my interview questions."
"Oh my God," I groan into his chest. "Why are you like this?"
"Because I love you." Dad says, chuckling.
Mom just kisses my temple. "Welcome home, sweetheart."
And just like that, the house feels full again.
Later in the afternoon, Zach's pushing the cart down the baking aisle while I trail beside him, tossing ingredients in as I spot them. Brown sugar, nutmeg, marshmallows, those mini marshmallows Mom forgot—basically half the Thanksgiving menu.
We already grabbed the cute table stuff too. Pumpkin napkins, gold-trimmed plates, and those little place-card holders shaped like acorns that Zach insisted were "unnecessary"—until he saw the matching runner and put it in the cart himself.
Right now he's scanning a shelf of pie fillings like he's making some life-and-death decision, one hand on the cart handle, the other propped on his hip.
And honestly?
He looks... domestic.
Ridiculously domestic.
I keep catching myself smiling like an idiot.
It doesn't help that his family's joining us tomorrow. We haven't done Thanksgiving all together in awhile, so everyone's excited.
Mom's in charge of the classics: her citrus-brined turkey, her herbed sourdough stuffing, roasted Brussels sprouts with balsamic glaze, and her famous pumpkin soup that tastes like a warm hug.
Charlene's pulling up with the heavy hitters: her five-cheese baked mac that basically has its own fan club, buttery mashed potatoes topped with garlic chips, sweet-potato casserole with that sinful pecan crunch, grilled corn with chili-lime butter, and two giant trays of her chocolate bourbon pecan pie that people have literally argued over.
Mhm, yum. My stomach is already celebrating.
Somewhere between the canned pie filling and the baking cocoa, we'd also ended up with two whole shelves' worth of candy and treats. Not for us—well, mostly not for us.
Zach tossed in another pack of fruit snacks.
"Think this is enough for the shelter bags?"
I peek into the cart. Sour gummies, chocolate bars, granola packets, mini cookie packs, trail mixes—basically a sugar-powered love letter to anyone who opens one.
"Maybe grab two more boxes of the animal crackers," I say. "Kids love those."
He grins and swings back for them without question.
Our families started doing this when we were fifteen—making little Thanksgiving loot bags to drop off at a few shelters around Naples—and it kind of became our thing.
A tiny, simple way to give back. A way to say thank you for everything we have.
And judging by how full the cart is getting, we're definitely overachieving this year.
Zach rolls the cart forward again and I walk behind him—big mistake.
He looks stupidly good doing absolutely nothing.
One hand on the cart, shoulders relaxed, head tilted like he's contemplating the deep meaning of cranberry sauce.
His fitted navy T-shirt stretches over his back and shoulders, outlining every clean line of muscle.
And his biceps—dear God—his biceps look like they're trying to break out of the sleeves on purpose.
Then my eyes drag lower—way lower—and suddenly I'm locked onto his ass.
Sweet. Holy. Yam casserole.
His jeans fit him too well—snug in all the right places, hugging him like they were custom-tailored by a team of angels who specialize in sinful tailoring. Every step he takes makes the fabric pull just right, like it's enticing me to go full unhinged girlfriend in the middle of Publix.
The man bends slightly to nudge the cart around a corner and — yep.
There goes my sanity.
Good God.
Oh, pilgrims and pumpkin pie.
Forget Thursday—my Thanksgiving came a whole day early.
Thank you, universe, I think reverently, staring at him like he's the main course. This is the kind of blessing they should write hymns about.
I'm so focused I don't even notice he stops.
I ram into the cart.
He turns around slowly, one brow raised. "You good back there?"
"I—yeah. Just... thinking."
"About my ass?"
My mouth drops open. "What? No! Oh my—Zach!"
He snorts. "You're staring so hard you look like you're trying to laser-scan me."
"Maybe don't walk around with—" I gesture vaguely, flustered. "—that situation."
"My butt?"
"Westbrook!"
He bites back a grin, steps closer. "Baby, if you want a closer look, you don't have to do it in a grocery store."
"I hate you," I mutter, which only makes him smirk harder.
He bumps his shoulder lightly against mine. "You're cute when you're flustered."
"I'm not flustered."
"You're bright red."
I grab the nearest item just so I have something to do. Pie crusts. Whatever. Into the cart they go.
Zach watches me for a beat—soft smile tugging at his mouth.
"I like grocery shopping with you," he says. Simple. Casual. Warm.
And for some reason, that hits different. My chest does this stupid little flutter, and I swear my face heats again.
"Me too," I say quietly.
He starts pushing the cart again, completely unaware that half the women in this aisle are staring at him like he's a Black Friday deal.
I notice every single one of them.
And yeah, maybe I walk a bit closer to him. Maybe I slide my hand onto the cart handle next to his.
Not possessive.
Just... reminding the world—and myself— that he's mine.
And I'm his.
And God, it feels good.
After almost an hour of zig-zagging through aisles, we roll toward the checkout lanes—of course there's a line. A long one. Everyone in Naples apparently remembered Thanksgiving is tomorrow.
Zach glances into the cart, then snaps his fingers. "Shit. I forgot to grab Sam's watermelon Sour Patch."
I laugh. "She will murder you."
"She'll haunt me."
He squeezes my hip. "Be right back."
Then he jogs off toward the candy aisle, and I swear three women track him like he's the last cookie on the tray. I drum my fingers on the cart handle, humming under my breath, pretending I don't notice.
The line inches forward.
Then a voice slices through the noise.
"Well, well, look who it is."
My whole body stiffens. I haven't heard that voice in years, but muscle memory is a bitch—my spine recognizes it before my brain does.
I don't want to turn around. I really, really don't.
But my head turns anyway. Stupid reflexes.
And there they are.
Cici—hair chopped into a trendy bob, one hand on her cart, the other on a very obvious baby bump.
And beside her is Tyler, chewing gum so aggressively I can practically hear the molars grinding from six feet away.
Both of them are wearing the same smug, condescending expressions they perfected in high school.
For half a second, I feel sixteen again—standing by my locker, praying I'd disappear before they noticed me.
Then it passes, and all I feel is... tired.
"See, babe? Told you it was her," Cici says, looping her arm through Tyler's, smiling like she's doing charity work.
Babe? So they're a couple now.
The two most irritating humans on campus willingly pairing up and multiplying. Fantastic. My condolences to the baby.
"You said there was no way," Cici continues, "because she doesn't look fat anymore."
My molars tighten. Of course that's the first thing out of her mouth.
Tyler pops his gum and gives me that sleazy slow grin—the kind that made me want to shower even back then.
"Yeah, gotta admit," he says, giving an obnoxious once-over, eyes shamelessly dragging from my face down to my chest, then slowly back up, "major glow-up, Sugar Plump."
Sugar Plump. I thought he'd retired that name. Guess not.
"Last time I saw you, you were—boom." He widens his arms in a balloon gesture.
Cici practically screeches laughing. The woman behind us startles. I roll my eyes and push the cart forward with the line. If I ignore them hard enough, maybe they'll wither like neglected houseplants.
Nope. Of course not.
Tyler leans in a little, smelling like gum and poor decisions. His gaze drags down my body again—slow, sticky, absolutely disgusting. "Heard you went to New York. Just visiting for the holiday?"
I resist the urge to reach for hand sanitizer.
Before I can answer, Cici jumps in. "Does Zach know you're back?" she says with a pouty little sneer. "Super heartless to leave without saying goodbye." She tilts her head. "Though honestly? Probably the only good thing you ever did. Zach was way better without you hanging on him. Right, babe?"
"Yeah," Tyler says automatically, though his eyes are glued to my chest. Not even attempting subtlety. I want to gouge his eyeballs out with a plastic spoon.