Chapter 16
EDDIE
I woke up to the sound of a shower running in the adjoining room. As usual, Bash was up early again. Had he gone for a run already? Probably not. He wouldn’t feel comfortable leaving me by myself in an unfamiliar environment.
For a moment, I lay in the narrow bed, staring at the cream-colored popcorn ceiling, and tried to summon the energy for what promised to be an emotionally exhausting day.
Thanksgiving with the Puller family. Playing the role of the gracious prince while Bash maintained his newly professional distance.
Pretending I wasn’t hurt by the careful way he’d been treating me since we’d stepped off that plane, like I was made of expensive china that might break if handled too familiarly.
I understood it to a certain degree. Of course we couldn’t let his family know we were pretending to be boyfriends and especially not that we’d been… intimate with each other.
Oh, bloody hell, Gregory. Hooked up. You hooked up with Bash. No need to protect the innocent here.
No, we couldn’t let his family know the truth. Of course I understood that. But he’d retreated in every way. Would it have been the end of the world if he’d acknowledged to them we’d become friends, that we were close? Apparently, that was not an option.
Fine. If he wanted professional distance, I would give him professional distance.
I’d spent my entire life perfecting the art of gracious formality, after all.
I could be charming and polite and completely untouchable for one day.
I’d done it at state dinners and charity galas and countless other occasions where being myself wasn’t an option.
I just hadn’t expected to have to do it with Bash.
By the time I emerged from my room, showered and dressed in what I hoped struck the right balance between respectful and casual, Bash was waiting in the hallway.
He looked good—really good, if I was being honest—in dark jeans and a navy sweater that brought out his eyes.
But there was something careful about his posture, something guarded in his expression that made my chest tight with disappointment.
“Mornin’,” he said, his tone perfectly polite as he held the door open for me. “Ready for the full American Thanksgiving experience?”
“Quite ready,” I replied with equal formality. “I’m looking forward to observing your family’s traditions.”
Something flickered in Bash’s expression—surprise, maybe, or concern—but it was gone so quickly, I might have imagined it.
The drive to his parents’ house was filled with the kind of polite conversation we might have had if we’d just met, Bash pointing out local landmarks and me responding with appropriate interest. No mention of the intimacy we’d shared over the past few weeks, of how he’d stayed in my bed more and more, no acknowledgment of the way we’d slept tangled together two nights ago.
We were two people fulfilling their respective roles.
This time, no one waited for us at the front door but we let ourselves in. The house smelled like a combination of roasting turkey, cinnamon, and something yeasty that made my mouth water despite my emotional state.
“Mama, we’re here,” Bash called out, and seconds later, Ellen Puller came out of the kitchen wearing an apron covered in flour and a smile that could have powered half of North Carolina.
“Glad to see you, boys. Go settle in the family room with your father, Bash. He could use the company.” She lowered her voice. “And for the love of everything holy, keep that man out of my kitchen or I may smack him with my rolling pin.”
I covered my smile with my hand, but Ellen saw and winked at me, a gesture so like Bash, it stung for a moment. “Do you need any help?” I asked her to cover.
“You’re our guest,” she said, frowning. “I can’t put you to work.”
“I would appreciate the opportunity to help, actually. This is all new to me, and I’d be delighted to get some hands-on experience.”
She blinked as if she needed a moment to process that, then flashed me another smile. “Well, in that case, welcome to bedlam, honey.”
I followed her into the kitchen and took in the controlled chaos of Thanksgiving preparation. Every available surface was covered with ingredients, mixing bowls, and various implements of culinary warfare. It was simultaneously overwhelming and oddly comforting.
“Why don’t you give me a hand with the stuffing?” she asked.
“I’d be happy to… with proper instructions and an explanation of what stuffing is, exactly. I’m afraid my culinary experience is quite limited, and my experience with American foods practically nonexistent.”
She handed me an apron. “Stuffing is what we serve with the turkey, and making it is simple enough. It’s a matter of mixing everything together properly.”
“That sounds like something I can be of assistance with.” I put on the apron and rolled up my sleeves. “What do I do?”
Ellen walked me through the process of making stuffing from scratch—bread cubes and celery and onions and enough butter to make my arteries weep—while keeping up a steady stream of commentary about family recipes and Thanksgiving traditions.
“This was my grandmother’s recipe,” she explained, adding what appeared to be an entire stick of butter to the mixture. “She came over from Ireland in 1892, married my grandfather, and spent the next fifty years learning how to cook American food. This stuffing was her masterpiece.”
“Did she adapt Irish recipes as well?”
“Oh yes. We still make her soda bread for Christmas, and her lamb stew is legendary in this family. Bash always asks for it when he comes home.”
From the living room came the sound of televised football and Jim Puller’s occasional commentary, punctuated by Bash’s responses. They sounded comfortable together, father and son falling back into familiar patterns, and I felt a strange pang of something that might’ve been envy.
“He’s missed being home,” Ellen said quietly, following my gaze toward the living room. “This job of his, protecting you, is important work, but it’s kept him away longer than he’s used to.”
“I hope I haven’t been too much of an inconvenience.”
“Oh, nonsense. He speaks very highly of you. Says you’re nothing like what he expected from royalty—much more down to earth, more genuine.
” Ellen paused in her stirring, studying my face.
“You two seem to work well together.” There was something in her tone that suggested she had picked up on something and was trying to understand the dynamic between her son and his charge.
“Bash is exceptionally competent,” I said, which was true and completely inadequate. “I’ve felt very safe in his care.”
Ellen nodded, apparently satisfied with that response, and we returned to our food preparation.
Over the next two hours, I learned how to make green bean casserole, mashed potatoes with enough cream to float a small boat, and something called sweet potato casserole that appeared to be more dessert than vegetable dish.
“In the South, we believe that if vegetables aren’t swimming in butter or covered in marshmallows, they’re not worth eating,” Ellen explained with a grin.
“A philosophy I will have no trouble embracing.”
As the morning progressed, Jim emerged from his football-watching to help with the heavier tasks—lifting the enormous turkey out of the oven, carrying serving dishes to the dining room table that had been extended to accommodate what looked like enough food for a small army.
“Ellen always cooks like she’s expecting the entire Marine Corps to show up,” Jim explained, setting down a platter of rolls. “Old habits from when the boys were growing up. Glenn could eat half a turkey by himself, and Bash wasn’t far behind.”
The casual mention of Glenn created a moment of silence, that particular quiet that comes when someone says the name of the dead without thinking.
But instead of the awkwardness I might’ve expected, there was something almost comforting about it, like Glenn was still part of the family conversation, still remembered and included even in his absence.
“He would’ve loved this,” Ellen said softly, adjusting the placement of a serving spoon. “Loved having company, loved bringing people home and showing off my cooking. That boy never met a stranger.”
“Unlike someone else I know,” Jim added with a pointed look toward the living room where Bash was pretending to watch football while obviously listening to our conversation. “Some people in this family take a while to warm up to new folks.”
I felt Bash’s attention sharpen, and when I glanced toward the living room, he was looking directly at me with an expression I couldn’t quite read. For a moment, our eyes met across the space between rooms, and I felt that familiar flutter of connection before I deliberately looked away.
By two o’clock, we were all seated around the dining room table with Jim at the head, Ellen to his right, Bash and I across from each other in an arrangement that felt both intimate and carefully orchestrated to avoid too much intimacy.
The table all but groaned under the weight of food.
The focus here was not on presentation—though we were using their good china, from what Ellen had told me—but on home-cooked food.
It wasn’t plated to perfection but all prepared with love.
And butter. Loads and loads of butter.
“Gregory, would you mind if we said grace before we eat?” Jim asked. “It’s a family tradition.”
“Of course not.” I bowed my head as the family joined hands. The gesture felt natural, comfortable, and was genuinely moved by the simple ritual.
“Lord, we thank you for the bounty before us, for family gathered around this table, and for the safe return of our son,” Jim spoke, his voice steady and warm. “We’re grateful for new friends who’ve joined us today, and we ask that you watch over those who can’t be with us.”
A pause, heavy with unspoken reference to Glenn.