Chapter Twenty-Five
Zadie
I’d never celebrated American Thanksgiving in my life. Hell, Canadian Thanksgiving had barely been a thing in my family.
Most years, we couldn’t afford a big meal. The first proper turkey we ever had was one I’d bought. I was fifteen, and for the first time, I’d spent part of my paycheck on something that wasn’t rent or my mother’s cigarettes.
That was the year my parents nearly killed each other over the last scoop of instant potatoes. After Jenni’s threat of death by butter knife, both she and my dad had stormed off, leaving me alone with a half-carved bird.
That was one of the better years.
So when Chantel told me her family celebrated the holiday in November, a tradition kept alive by Caleb’s dad, who’d grown up in the States, I’d shown up early to help.
A handsome, dark-haired man had answered the front door.
“Welcome to the madhouse,” he’d said, as the sound of rambunctious children blared behind him. “Is that a pie?”
His voice was deep and his blue eyes were so achingly familiar that I’d gone temporarily mute.
I’d never met him, but I’d known instantly he was Caleb’s brother. He was taller, broader, with shorter hair and a bearded jaw. He also looked a lot older, sounded a lot harder, and was missing Caleb’s unguarded warmth. But the resemblance was unmistakable.
“They don’t bite, I promise,” he’d added, nodding toward the chaos behind him. “And they’ll burn themselves out eventually. You’re Zadie?”
“Yes, hi. Are you Eric or Marc?”
“Eric. And if that pie is lemon meringue, you and I are going to get along just fine.”
“It’s apple.”
“That’ll do.”
He’d welcomed me inside, where his two girls ran through the house like miniature tornadoes. They raced between the kitchen and the front hall, shrieking with delight, while the most beautiful pregnant woman I’d ever seen chased after them.
Jamie had a mane of silky blonde perfection, a glowing complexion, and an incredibly large, perfectly rounded belly. The sight of her magnified every imperfection and fear of inadequacy I carried.
I’d offered to help in the kitchen, but Chantel’s mother, Solange, who’d flown in from Montreal for the week, had taken over like she was organizing an evacuation effort.
She moved between the stove and the counter with a precision that made cooking look like choreography, barking orders in French that Jamie somehow understood and obeyed without complaint.
Between the two of them, every surface was covered with something that smelled incredible, and there was absolutely nothing for me to do.
“Sit,” Solange had told me when I’d offered to help for the third time. “Eat the bread. Stay out of my way.”
So, I sat. I ate the bread. And I watched two women who clearly had their lives together do the thing I’d never learned how to do—make a home feel like one.
Chantel had arrived straight from work, cutting it close as usual.
I hadn’t seen her since she’d ditched me for my ultrasound.
We’d spoken through text in brief, clipped exchanges that left a lot to be desired.
Her apology had been half-assed at best, and it made me wonder when exactly my definition of best friend had started to shift.
I still loved her. But when I needed someone I could trust, someone I could count on, it was Caleb who came to mind first.
Now I was sitting across the dinner table from Jamie and Eric, with Caleb beside me, questioning a lot more than my capacity for motherhood.
Despite the friendly conversation and the cuteness of Mia shoveling handfuls of corn and peas into her mouth with both fists, my head was stuck back in the front hall. On Caleb, and the way he’d kissed me before laying down his dare.
And then try to tell me I’m not serious about you.
I couldn’t. Not when my lips were still tingling and my underwear was damp from a kiss that hadn’t even involved tongue.
That kiss had been earth-shattering and ended far too soon. Why was it that every time his mouth found mine, my world ignited and I wanted to throw reason out the window?
“Where’s Hunter?” Caleb asked before taking a massive bite of turkey.
I watched his mouth as he chewed. His throat as he swallowed. His hands holding the knife and fork. Everything about him was turning me on, even the basic act of eating.
“He’s with his dad.” Jamie answered.
“Who’s Hunter?” I asked, grateful for any distraction from my spiraling thoughts.
Jamie’s pretty smile lit up her whole face. “My son.”
“Our son,” Eric corrected.
A look passed between them. One that was so layered and intimate I felt like an intruder. Jamie set down her fork and covered Eric’s hand with hers. They held each other’s gaze, and then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Yes,” she agreed softly. “Our son.”
It hit me then. That look. Those gestures. The feeling of trespassing on something sacred. This was a couple deeply, fundamentally in love.
Real love. True fucking love.
“Hunter is technically Jamie’s son from a previous relationship,” Caleb explained beside me. “But Eric sort of adopted him when they got together.”
“I wish I could make it official,” Eric muttered, his jaw tightening. “But his biological father’s still in the picture and won’t sign off on it.”
“Hunter’s sixteen,” Jamie soothed, her hand still over his. “Two more years and it won’t matter. You’re the one he lives with. The reliable one. Dylan’s just got the title.”
Silverware clattered against china as Chantel shoved back from the table.
“Excuse me.” Her tone was anything but apologetic. “I’m suddenly not feeling well.”
She threw her napkin down and turned to leave.
“Chantel.” Solange’s voice was sharp.
They exchanged rapid French—too fast and too heated for me to follow. But the tone was clear. Neither of them was happy.
“I need some air,” Chantel said flatly, and walked out.
“Maybe I should go check on her.” My stomach rolled uncomfortably. I was furious with Chantel, but she was still my person, and seeing her this upset made my chest ache.
Caleb’s hand landed on my knee under the table. “I think she needs a minute alone. She’s been working a lot of long hours.”
Like that explained her behavior. It certainly didn’t excuse it.
Other than Solange’s carefully masked concern, no one seemed rattled by Chantel’s exit. Jamie and Eric were still exchanging soft looks, Brooklyn was focused on her food, and Mia appeared to be losing her battle against turkey coma.
And Caleb’s hand was still on my knee.
His thumb swept back and forth, his expression guarded. The slight shake of his head and the cut of his eyes toward Eric warned me not to push.
“So, Caleb.” Solange’s voice broke through the quiet, her tone strained. “Chantel tells me you’ve been volunteering at the hospital.”
His head was still turned toward me, so Solange couldn't see his eyes squeeze shut, or the sharp breath he drew through his nose. But I could.
“You’re doing what?” Eric’s voice dropped to something low and dangerous.
“It’s nothing,” Caleb said, turning back to face the table.
“I wouldn’t call it nothing.” Solange pressed on, seemingly unaware of the damage she was doing. “Three times a week in the pediatric oncology ward? That’s quite significant.”
“Oh, Caleb.” Jamie’s hand flew to her chest.
“Significant is one word for it,” Eric growled, his blue eyes locked on his brother.
A wave of protectiveness surged through me, strong enough to nearly drive me out of my chair. Caleb was a grown man, but the way Eric was looking at him, like he’d done something reckless and unforgivable, made me want to put myself between them.
“I think it’s wonderful,” I said, my voice firmer than I intended. “The world doesn’t have enough people willing to give their time like that.”
Caleb’s hold on my knee turned to a death grip. Every muscle in his body was rigid as he held his brother’s stare.
Jamie rubbed her hand over her large belly. “This baby is making it impossible to enjoy a big meal. Solange, I couldn’t have done it without you.” She turned to her husband. “I think I need to lie down. Will you help me to our room?”
Eric stared at Caleb a moment longer before pushing his chair back. “Of course, beautiful. Whatever you need.” He turned to Solange as he stood. “Thank you for a wonderful meal, Tante Sol. I’ll tell Mom your stuffing is still better than hers.”
“Merci, Eric. Go take care of your wife. I’ll look after the girls. This little one could use a nap as well.” She lifted Mia from her highchair with practiced ease. “Right, chérie?”
Chairs scraped. Dishes were stacked. Jamie tried to help clear the table before Solange shooed her away with a stern look that reminded me so much of Chantel it was almost funny.
“I can clean up,” I offered.
“No.” Solange’s voice was firm. “My daughter can do it when she’s finished acting like an insolent child.”
The room emptied, and then Caleb and I were alone.
He turned in his seat, his entire body angling toward mine, and I did the same. His legs and his broad shoulders swallowed the space between us, but he didn’t pull back.
“And that is my family,” he said through a tight laugh. “Part of it, at least. Believe it or not, they’re the easy ones.”
“They’re a hell of a lot better than mine.”
He held my gaze with those brilliant blue eyes—steady, unwavering, and completely stripped of pretense. He was devastating. Hard muscle, soft hair, and an emotional depth that defied every assumption people made about him.
Caleb Alexander had dealt with some shit in his life. I might not have had all the details, but I knew it was significant.
Cancer was fucking significant.
And deep down, I knew it had made him who he was today. A man with a big smile and an even bigger heart. A man who saw the world as a place of possibility. A place of fucking hope.
Hope that was contagious.
“I’m sorry, Zadie.” His voice dropped low.
“For what? You’ve got nothing to apologize for.”
“I pushed too hard earlier. I don’t want you to feel cornered.”
“You didn’t corner me.” I blinked against the sting in my eyes. “You’ve been honest about what you want. That’s not pressure, Cal. That’s courage. I’m the one who keeps pulling you in only to shove you away again.”
“You probably should be sorry for that.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “Most women find me irresistible.”
The tears retreated, replaced by a laugh I couldn’t hold back. “With that modesty? I’m sure they’re lining up. You can have your pick.”
“I’ve already picked, Zadie.” The humor vanished. “I want you. Only you.”
“You have my attention. It’s just…”
“Just what?” He leaned forward, his arm landing on the table beside mine, his other hand finding the back of my chair. His legs boxed me in, and my pulse kicked hard.
I felt stripped bare. Every wall I’d built, every excuse I’d rehearsed, every reason I’d constructed to keep him at a distance—none of it held up when he looked at me like that.
“I’m scared.”
“I know you are.” God, he looked so certain. “But I’m not asking you to be fearless—and that wouldn’t be possible anyway. I’m just asking you to let me stand next to you while you face it.”
The words hit me harder than any declaration of love could have. Because he wasn’t promising to fix me or save me or make the fear disappear. He was offering to be there while I figured it out.
“Are you sure you still want me?” I drifted closer. “After everything I’ve put you through? Everything I’m probably going to keep putting you through?”
“Zadie.” His hand found the back of my neck, fingers sliding into my hair. “I’ve never been more sure about something in my entire life.”
The sound that left me might have been a whimper. Or maybe it was the last of my resistance finally giving way.
His mouth crashed into mine with a force that stole my breath. Not aggression. Not exactly. This was the dominance of a man who was done asking, done apologizing, and done pretending he’d settle for anything less than all of me.
And God help me, I didn’t want him to settle. I wanted him to take.
His tongue swept into my mouth, his hand tightening in my hair, angling my head exactly where he wanted it. I opened wider, gave him more, and the growl that rumbled through his chest made my thighs clench.
My hands were everywhere—his arms, his shoulders, his jaw. I couldn’t stop touching him. Couldn’t stop pulling him closer.
Then his hands dropped to my waist, and in one fluid motion, he hauled me out of my chair and into his lap. I gasped against his mouth as my weight settled over him, his cock a hard ridge under my thighs.
He groaned at the contact, and something snapped loose inside me.
I ground against him in slow, desperate circles, and he gripped my hips hard enough to bruise, pulling me down tighter against him.
We were panting, clawing, and I was two seconds away from sweeping the dishes to the floor so we could finish this on the dining room table.
“Well, it’s about fucking time.”
Our mouths broke apart, both of us startling at the sound of Chantel’s voice. She was standing at the foot of the table with her arms crossed and a smirk balanced somewhere between smug satisfaction and genuine delight.
“As happy as I am to see this,” she continued, “there are children in this house. Might want to keep it PG.”
Heat rushed into my cheeks, but Caleb’s hands kept me locked in place. He nuzzled my ear, nipped at the lobe, then placed a deliberate kiss on my cheek before lifting his head to meet Chantel’s stare.
“You’re a doctor,” he said, his voice steady and unruffled. “You should know it’s unhealthy to keep secrets.”
Chantel’s face went white. The pulse in her neck kicked visibly.
“It’s okay.” His tone softened. “Your secret’s safe with me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Neither did I, but I wasn’t about to interrupt their standoff.
“Yes, you do.” His calm didn’t waver. “But like I said, I’m not talking. And we’ll keep quiet about you playing matchmaker with us, too. So that’s at least two secrets I’m keeping for you.”
He held her stare with a kind of quiet authority as her mouth opened, then snapped closed.
“I think you kind of owe me.” He smirked. “Maybe you could start by doing all the dishes.”
She quirked a manicured brow, rolled her eyes, and then started collecting plates. “Never took you for a badass, cousin.”
“Don’t get too comfortable.” He was grinning now, but there was steel underneath it. “We’ll discuss your little voyeurism issue later.”
Her laugh was louder than I’d heard in weeks. She was relaxed, maybe even happy, and the sight of my best friend with something other than a scowl on her face put a lump in my throat.
As she cleared the table, I studied Caleb’s face. Chantel wasn’t wrong—badass wasn’t quite the word, but he was a rebel. A relentless fighter.
At that moment, though, all I saw was a sharp jaw I wanted to run my tongue along and eyes that made me forget why I’d ever been afraid.
My skepticism had melted. My reason stolen.
Caleb Alexander had corrupted my mind, replacing every doubt with a hopeful dream.