Chapter 23
TWENTY-THREE
LEO
I barely get my coat hung before Sunny comes barreling past me in socks, hair flying like she’s got a wind machine blowing right at her.
Otis thunders after her, tail wagging hard enough to rattle the picture frames, tongue flopping out of his mouth in pure joy.
That Aussie always wins, but Sunny never accepts defeat without a rematch.
She shrieks with laughter and darts around the corner, Otis hot on her trail.
God, I love it here. Dexter’s house smells like roasted turkey and cinnamon, and the noise—I don’t believe I could hear myself think if I tried.
From what I gather, there are too many hands in the one kitchen, the men are most likely in the den watching football, and my favorite almost-eleven-year-old will sprint back around that corner in three… two…
“Gotcha!” I grab Sunny and launch her over my shoulder right as she makes the turn.
Feet kicking and arms flailing, she screams, “Uncle Leo! He’ll win!
You’re letting him win!” as we both watch Otis sail past us, down the hall, and leap into the giant bean bag strategically posted inside the open bonus room door.
I refuse to let down my captive, carrying her through the living room and into the kitchen where I know I’ll find a gaggle of women talking over each other and cooking all my favorite foods.
“Absolutely not!” Skye.
“You’re insane,” Tori fires back.
Alis’s laugh cuts through both of them. “You’re both wrong.”
“Daddy’s home,” I announce, just to see if anyone’s paying attention.
The women don’t hear a word I’ve said, but they instantly stop their bickering when Sunny lands a solid punch to my back, a knee to my stomach, and yells, “You’re not my dad! Dexter is my dad, you dummy!”
I drop the little shit. Because, obviously.
“What did you just say?” Alis whispers, eyes watering and face so lit up with happiness I could puke.
Please. Nobody rush to help or even notice the man doubled over and out of breath from being assaulted by the four-foot-ten-inch tyrant.
Dex enters the kitchen and claps a hand on my shoulder, not reading the room whatsoever. “Why is everyone so quiet?” he asks, looking from me, to Alis, then Sunny, and back to Alis.
“And why are you crying, love?” He can see that her tears are not from sadness, so he doesn’t rush to comfort her. Instead, he wraps an arm around Sunny’s shoulders and ruffles her hair, leaning down to whisper, “You know she’s staring at you, right?”
Sunny looks up at him and nods. “Yeah. I know. I said the dad thing.”
“Ah,” Dexter acknowledges, not at all surprised by this revelation—the complete opposite of Alis. “I thought we were going to talk about that as a family before you started saying it in front of people?”
Huffing out a breath, Sunny rolls her eyes before gesturing toward me. “That was the plan, until this loser walked in the kitchen and said, ‘Daddy’s home’ like some gross old mall Santa and, I don’t know. It just slipped out.”
“Slipped out,” Dexter laughs.
“Someone had to put him in his place,” she shrugs. “Especially after he made me lose my race. Again.”
Before I can fire back, Alis’s parents appear from the direction of the den like reinforcements. Julia spreads her arms, all warmth, perfume, and holiday cheer.
“Leo, darling, you made it!”
Finally. The recognition I deserve.
“Mama Gilmore,” I throw my arms wide and step into her embrace. “At last! Someone in this house appreciates me.”
“Don’t encourage him,” Tori groans.
“Too late,” Skye adds.
Jim chuckles and pushes his way through the mess of bodies crowding the kitchen, heading straight for the turkey and muttering something about quality control.
And just like that, the chaos resumes. The kitchen fills with clatter and chatter, Skye and Tori bicker over who’s in charge of the potatoes, Alis wields her dishtowel like a weapon, Sunny and Otis zoom past every few minutes—I still don’t understand how that girl hasn’t broken an arm, or her neck, running through this house—and Dexter makes the heroic save of the stuffing tray before it burns.
I slide into the rhythm of it, grabbing a pack of dinner rolls from the counter and tearing the plastic with my thumb. The kitchen’s packed shoulder-to-shoulder, so I start arranging the rolls into a basket, making them look more presentable than “straight from the bag.”
I claim counter space beside Tori, who’s furiously whisking like the fate of Thanksgiving depends on her wrist strength.
“Need a spotter?” I ask, nudging a roll into place like it’s fine art.
She side-eyes me, whisk still flying. “You’ll just start punning about peaks and slopes again.”
“True.” I dip closer, lowering my voice so only she can hear. “But honestly? I’d rather watch you whisk than listen to Skye butcher another O-Town lyric.”
Her lips twitch, betraying the laugh she’s trying to bury. “Careful, Euler. You’re dangerously close to charming.”
I hold up the basket like I’ve performed a miracle. “Please. These rolls look homemade. I deserve a medal.”
She glances over, unimpressed. “You opened a bag.”
“And elevated the presentation.” I grin. “That’s called flair, Foster.”
“As Sunny would say, ‘delulu is your solulu.’” She bumps my hip with hers, still whisking. “But sure. Keep telling yourself you contributed.”
The contact is brief. Just a bump. Just a tease. But the heat lingers like she left a match pressed to my side.
I let the silence stretch, lean in just enough for my shoulder to brush hers as I glance into the bowl. “You always whisk this hard, or is today special?”
She snorts, catching the innuendo immediately. “It’s mashed potatoes, Leo.”
“I’m just saying…” My grin is shameless. “If there were an Olympic category for wrist stamina—”
“Stop.” Her cheeks flush, but she’s smiling now, teeth biting into her bottom lip like she can hold back the laugh.
I set the basket down, fingers tapping against the handle of the whisk instead, deliberately grazing hers. “Tell me to go and I will.”
She doesn’t tell me to go. Instead, her hand stills for half a beat, then she keeps whisking, slower this time. Her shoulder brushes mine again, maybe by accident, maybe not.
“Fine,” she mutters. “You can stay. Quietly.”
“Quietly is not my strong suit.” I pitch my voice lower, leaning close enough that her brunette waves graze my jaw. “But I’ll make an exception for you.”
Her breath catches, just enough for me to notice. She doesn’t move away.
“Don’t read into this,” she says, eyes fixed on the bowl.
“Oh, I’m reading into everything.”
Her laugh comes out shaky, and when she finally risks a glance at me, it’s loaded—she knows exactly what we’re doing—and exactly how much trouble we’re both in.
“Scootch, hootch.” Skye wedges in between us, obliterating the moment.
“You forgot the cheese!” she whines, her tone drenched in accusation.
Tori grabs the bowl of potatoes and spins away from Skye, keeping it just out of reach. “Don’t you fuck with my potatoes, woman!”
I knew they were arguing about the potatoes earlier, but I didn’t realize the argument had become so heated.
“You know,” Dexter says, stepping up beside me while we watch two grown-ass women engrossed in a game of keep-away, “they could have just made two different types of mashed potatoes.”
I nod in agreement. “Sound logic. But, women.”
The crack of the dishtowel sounds a millisecond before my left asscheek lights on fire. “The fuck?!” I spin just in time to see Alis locked and loaded to deliver another lashing to my backside.
“Women? Are you kidding me right now?” She pops the towel once more but misses, and before she can try again I push Dexter in front of me like a shield.
He’s too busy laughing to offer any real assistance or come to my defense, so I leave him to handle his fiancée, twisting and ducking my way through women and bowls and Julia pulling a pie out of the oven before I finally make it into the front hall.
Am I in the clear? Of course not. Because right as I think I’ve avoided all possible collisions I hear a high-pitched squeal, a bark, and then I’m airborne—tumbling sideways through the open bonus room door in a tangle of fur and claws and screaming eleven-year-old.
And thank fuck for this giant bean bag.
Dinner is done, the last of the pie plates scraped clean, the kitchen a battlefield of dirty dishes and half-empty wine glasses. Inside, the noise keeps rolling—football commentary, women laughing over coffee, Sunny and Otis still tearing through the halls like caffeinated maniacs.
Isn’t the tryptophan supposed to knock that kid out at some point?
Out here on the back porch, it’s quiet.
Cold air bites at my cheeks, sharp with pine and woodsmoke from a neighbor’s chimney. Dexter sets two heavy tumblers and a bottle of whiskey on the porch rail, then fishes two cigars from his shirt pocket and offers me the matchbook.
“You want the first light?” he asks.
I shake my head. “Nah. You’re the host.”
He grins, tucks a cigar between his lips, and strikes the match. The flame flares, then dims as he pulls. I light mine and wait until the end glows. The first draw is familiar—smoke and burn, a ritual. The whiskey chases it down, smooth enough to make me sigh.
For a while we stand shoulder to shoulder, saying nothing, watching our breath curl into the dark.
“How’s George?” Dexter finally asks, voice careful but steady.
I keep my eyes on the tree line. “He’s… hanging in there. Some days are worse than others. But he’s still George. Still making everyone laugh, still giving the nurses hell.”
Dexter’s mouth lifts. “Sounds about right.”
“Linda’s doing her best,” I add. “She’s strong. Stronger than me most days.”
Dexter nods, takes another drag. “I can only imagine.”
We sip in silence again. The night is heavy but not suffocating. I let the whiskey burn its way down, loosening knots of grief, little by little.
Dexter breaks it next. “I hate to ask, but… I know you still care about her. How’s Stephanie handling everything?”
I exhale smoke and watch it vanish into the dark. “I haven’t spoken to her. Not really. But I know she’s at her parents’ every day that I’m not. So, yeah. She’s there, doing what she can.”
He nods once, slow. A man of few words, like that was all he needed to know. He doesn’t push further.
From inside, laughter spills through the glass—Tori’s laugh, sharp and bright, rising above the rest. I turn, catch sight of her through the window.
She really is so goddamn beautiful. Her head tipped to the side, hands covering her face, laughing hysterically while Skye gestures wildly about who knows what. I love seeing her happy.
The sound cuts through my heaviness like a blade, unraveling more knots in my chest, warming me more than the whiskey. I don’t want to, but I do—I picture what it might be like to let her in. Really let her in.
“So. What’s that all about?” Dexter tilts his glass, eyes narrowing as he studies me.
I blink. “What—”
“I saw you in the kitchen. Then you sat next to her at dinner. And don’t think I didn’t notice the two of you sneaking looks at each other the whole damn meal.”
I huff a laugh, low, more exhale than sound. “That obvious, huh?”
“Obvious enough,” he says, grinning. “Alis didn’t catch it—or at least, I don’t think so—but I did. And I’m asking.”
I don’t answer right away. My thumb taps the glass, restless. I think of her shoulder brushing mine in the kitchen, the way her hair grazed my jaw when she leaned close, how the world shrank down to the two of us on that trail.
“It’s… complicated,” I say finally, voice rough. “But I can’t seem to stop looking at her.”
Dexter takes another pull from his cigar, exhales slowly. His other hand rests easy on the tumbler on the rail. When he turns back, his face is full of concern.
“Does she know? About Stephanie?”
I nod. “Yeah. She knows.”
“All of it?”
I take another sip of whiskey before answering. “Strangely, yes. I’d say she knows more than you.”
“Damn.” He laughs, shaking his head. “And here I thought I was your shoulder to cry on.”
“Fuck off,” I mutter, landing a playful punch to his shoulder.
He chuckles, but when it fades, his expression sharpens. “But do you know?”
That pulls me up short. “What do you mean?”
“I mean, sure, you’ve told her everything. But has she done the same with you? Has she let you in the same way?”
It’s a fair question, but I still feel myself bristling. Of course he’s not prying—this is Dex, he’d never come at me sideways—but still. My instinct is to guard her. To protect what’s hers to share.
“I don’t fucking know, man,” I snap before I can reel it in. “It’s not like we’re dating. She’s still married, for Christ’s sake.”
“Whoa, brother.” Dexter holds up both hands, the picture of surrender. “I wasn’t trying to pry or make assumptions. I was asking because I care about you. If you decide to pursue something with her, I want to make sure you’re not the only one cutting yourself wide open.”
I drag my hands through my hair, tug hard, then drop them.
“I know. And you’re right.” My voice is quieter now, the fight gone.
I press the heel of my hand to my brow, take a breath.
“My head’s everywhere. George, work, Stephanie’s random shit—and then Tori bulldozes in like the most perfect temptation I’ve ever seen, right there in front of me, every damn day. ”
I let out a laugh, half amusement, half exasperation.
“In one day—hell, one hour—I’ll feel grief, annoyance, happiness, contentment, and more turned on than I’ve been in years.
And those last three? Entirely because of her.
” I gesture toward the dining room window, where she’s still laughing with Alis and Skye.
“Do you know how much of a mind fuck that is? When all I’ve felt for more than three years now is empty?”
Dexter doesn’t answer right away. He just nods, slow, steady. He knows. He’s seen it—watched me burn down into someone angry and bitter and broken. Watched me try to claw my way back.
“And how’s that working out for you?”
“What?”
“Feelings,” he says, hiding a smirk behind the lip of his glass.