Chapter 20
DEVON
“Kairo! You’re here!”
He stands on my doorstep with a soft, light smile on his face and snow dusting the tips of his hair.
A silver wrapped gift tucks under one arm and he slowly unbuttons his coat while Martin stomps his feet and puffs out his cheeks against the cold.
“I hope we’re not too late,” Kairo says. “The traffic was a nightmare.”
“You’re actually just in time. Come in, come in!” I motion them both in with a wave of my hand and step back, allowing them to pass, then I close the door. “Can I take your coats?”
Martin’s coat comes first after he shakes the snow from its shoulders, then he’s immediately whisked deeper into the house by a call from my mother.
Kairo remains in the hallway with me and slowly removes his coat, revealing a dark blue shirt underneath that strains slightly over his muscles as he frees his arms from the woolen sleeves.
“Thank you,” he says as I take the coat from his arms. His warmth lingers within the material as I hug it and scan the coat rack for a good spot that won’t affect the visibly expensive material.
“It’s no problem. I’m glad you could make it. Last we spoke, you sounded like things were getting really busy at work.”
“It’s been a hectic few days,” he confirms. “But no one is contesting your land bid, correct?”
Hanging his coat on the last peg, I nod as I turn to face him. “Not a soul. My lawyer keeps warning me that it’s unprecedented and we can’t take these things for granted, but I’m hopeful. If we win, Christmas might not be a disaster this year. I need something good to come out of this.”
“How is your arm?” His eyes dip down to my cast, and I show off the new blue emblazoned with silver and gold stars. “What happened?”
“Nothing terrible!” My other hand clasps his forearm before I think it through. “I spilled some water and it soaked into the cast. Visiting the hospital seemed easiest so I went to get it checked and they offered to change my cast. I hope it isn’t going to cost you.”
“I wouldn’t care if it did,” Kairo replies. “The blue is nice.”
“Thanks! I tried to make it festive with the stars. Mom suggested turkeys because of Thanksgiving, but I was against walking around town with those birds on my arm.” My smile comes easily until I register how long I’ve been clutching Kairo’s bare arm.
His shirt sleeves are nearly tucked up at his elbows, so there’s nothing between my palm and the faint flutter of his pulse at his wrist.
The warmth suddenly turns scorching, like someone has flicked a switch between us, and our eyes lock.
“The stars are perfect,” Kairo says in a low voice. “I wouldn’t have expected anything else. They remind me of some of the cupcakes I saw when I first visited the bakery. I remember thinking they sparkled more than I thought food was capable of.”
“I do have a talent,” I tease. I should remove my hand, but now that I’m aware of it, I can’t.
Or is it because I don’t want to? The heat rising between our point of contact isn’t unpleasant, but my heart is racing as if something else is going to happen.
It’s like energy is building between us, and as soon as I move, it will explode like a crack of lightning.
I’m rescued by Dad appearing in the hall, brandishing a carving knife. “Are you two coming to eat or is this Thanksgiving just for Martin?”
It spurs us both into action and we break apart while sweat prickles at my hairline and my heart continues to race.
I lead Kairo into the lounge where our furniture has been pushed against the wall to make space for the dining table that spends ten months of the year folded up behind the couch.
It’s surrounded by wooden chairs and laden down with all types of food.
Dad stands at the head of the table, brandishing his carving knife before a small roasted turkey that my mother and I spent all day cooking.
Just beside it sits a dish of creamy mashed potatoes, green beans covered in cheese, two dishes of candied yams as they’re dad’s favorite, and a small dish of roasted corn.
Near my mother, who sits beside my father, are the sauces.
There are two types of gravy, cranberry sauce, and a spicy homemade sauce of my father’s secret recipe.
The rest of the table is filled with stuffing balls hand-rolled by me, soft rolls in a basket, and corn bread next to a stick of butter.
Right in the middle of the table, hugging the candle holder, are several pies—pumpkin, apple, and chocolate cinnamon.
Martin’s already seated and gazing at all the food with his mouth open.
Even Kairo looks taken aback, so I gently take his hand which immediately draws his attention away from the food.
“Your seat is next to mine,” I say softly. “This one.”
His hand is nice in mine.
His grip remains feather-light and even as his fingers naturally flex as he walks, nothing about it ignites my flight.
I lead him to his seat, which is in front of a small covered dish, and sit next to him as he lowers himself down.
Even seated, he’s still amusingly a head taller than me.
“This is just for you,” Mom says and she leans across the table. As she removes the lid, I watch Kairo’s face flicker from confusion to something soft I can’t quite decipher.
The dish features a small roast chicken, seasoned and surrounded by carrots, parsnips, and sweet onions.
“You made this for me?” His eyes dart from me to my mother, who nods with a warm smile.
“Devon told me you aren’t a fan of turkey and she picked this up from the market.”
He falls silent, staring at the dish.
Even Martin notices, and a flicker of a frown crosses his features until my father takes all the attention by beginning to carve the turkey.
I watch Kairo.
He seems troubled by the chicken for a long moment, then his eyes meet mine and the softest smile I’ve ever seen creeps across his face.
“Is it too much?” My heart pounds for a new reason. Maybe I was too presumptuous. Maybe he doesn’t even like chicken anymore. Is this too personal? Perhaps I’m overthinking it.
Just as my mind races and my leg starts to shuffle, Kairo’s hand covers mine on the table and everything inside me falls silent.
“I’m stunned you remembered,” he says earnestly. “It’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”
“It’s just chicken,” blurts out of me like a reflex, and I wince, kicking myself. “I mean… I’m sorry, I just mean—”
“It’s okay.” He chuckles and color warms his cheeks. “I understand what you mean.”
Anyone would think he’d never had a warm, home-cooked Thanksgiving before.
Given what I know of him and his story about his father, maybe he hasn’t.
It’s as if a disconnect exists in his life between him and his family.
It’s a quiet part of the reason I worked so hard today to make everything perfect.
That and to thank him.
I have a real chance of securing the bakery and ending my family’s troubles.
All thanks to Kairo.
We eat and talk like we’ve known each other for years.
Dad shares a tale of how close he came to losing his thumb on a stubborn turkey one year.
Mom laughs about bringing a date to Thanksgiving one year in her teens, and the argument that erupted between her and her father is why she can never eat sprouts again.
Martin stuffs his face, constantly complimenting the food and revealing that he hasn’t had a real Thanksgiving meal since his sister passed away some eight years ago.
It didn’t seem right without her, but he’s realizing what he missed.
Even Kairo shares tales of Thanksgiving, but as warmly as he speaks, it becomes clear that I was right.
His mother orchestrates his Thanksgivings.
A dinner to make deals and trick people into agreements they wouldn’t make without the merriment of the season.
While Kairo tells stories of dancing and laughter and chefs cooking around the clock, his stories lack what exists in everyone else’s.
Love.
For a man so tender and comforting, he seems denied basic familial affection.
He lights up at the dinner table when he talks about gardening with my father, and he eagerly listens to my mother’s explanations on how she cooked things a certain way.
Even Martin joins in the laughter.
It’s the noisiest and warmest this house has been in years.
Throughout the entire meal, Kairo keeps one hand resting on the table next to mine and he only moves it to take a drink.
He doesn’t touch, but the soft invitation is there along with the comfort of his presence, and it’s difficult not to think about our kiss.
In truth, I’ve been thinking about it ever since he arrived looking beautiful in that shirt.
“I’m stuffed.” Martin sags back in his seat with a groan. “I can’t eat another bite.”
“Don’t worry.” Mom grins. “We have the perfect way for you to build up an appetite for more dessert.”
“An activity?” Kairo glances around the table. “I should warn you that if it has anything to do with sports, then I’ll have to sit out. It wouldn’t be fair on the rest of you.”
“You talk big talk.” Dad snorts over his beer. “I’d like to see you perform sporting miracles in the snow.”
Laughter rises as Mom and Dad begin clearing the table.
Martin leaps to help, but as Kairo stands to do the same, I catch his hand and he lingers.
“It’s a family tradition,” I explain, gazing up at him.
My heart pounds as a thought leaps into my mind. If he leans down and kisses me, will I taste the sweetness of the cranberry sauce that’s passed his lips?
Or will I just taste him?
“What is it?”
“Ice skating.”
“Oh, no.”
“You can’t skate?”
“I’m not exactly coordinated on uneven ground.”
“It’s okay. I’ll teach you.”
“Are you sure you want me to come?” Kairo’s lips twist together. “I would hate to intrude on family traditions more than I already have.”
“You have to come. Besides.” Using his hand for support, I stand slowly and smile. “You’re technically part of this family, so you have to come. It would be so rude not to.”
Kairo chuckles and smiles. “Alright. Let’s go ice skating.”