Chapter 23
Chapter Twenty-Three
Alycia
The Hendrix family home looks like every storybook version of belonging I’ve spent my whole life pretending I didn’t want.
A turn-of-the-century craftsman tucked at the end of a long gravel drive, wrapped in porch light and shadows cast by old trees.
The kind of house people grow up in, fall apart in, and find their way back to. A house that remembers.
There are too many cars in the driveway when Kyle pulls in, gravel crunching beneath the tires like this place has been holding families long before either of us existed.
Warm light spills in golden rectangles from the windows, and even from the car, I can hear the hum of voices and laughter loud enough to shake something loose inside someone’s ribs.
I want to throw up.
No. This is fine. Everything is fine. It’s just dinner with Kyle’s entire family—the same family who also happens to be the backbone of the entire franchise. I am professionally obligated to keep this crisis-free.
Totally, completely fine.
Kyle shifts the car into park and glances over at me. The dashboard glow cuts across his cheekbone, catching the faint scar at his eyebrow. He looks relaxed. Not careless, but steady in a way that almost makes me steady, too.
“You’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I ask, even though the answer is obvious.
“The one where you rehearse every potential outcome and forget to breathe.”
“I’m breathing.”
“Barely.”
I inhale slowly, trying to make it look intentional instead of panicked. “I just want this to go smoothly.”
“It’s just dinner.” He shrugs lightly. “My family’s chaotic, not dangerous.”
“Kyle, the last time all of you were in the same room, reporters showed up because someone leaked that Beau and Cole were having a ‘culinary showdown.’ Three journalists live-tweeted the stuffing-recipe argument.”
He grins, completely unfazed. “Yeah, but nobody cried.”
“That is not the bar I’m aiming for.”
“You’ll be fine.” His fingers brush the back of my hand, light and casual on the surface but anything but casual under my skin. “They already like you.”
“They think they like me,” I correct. “They like the version of me they see at the rink. Clipboard, calm, unshakeable.”
“Newsflash.” His voice dips. “That’s not the version Momma invited.”
I look at the house again, watching all the silhouettes passing behind the curtains. Someone crosses the living room with a dish while someone else gestures with both hands like their life depends on the story they’re telling.
“What version did she invite, then?”
His gaze lingers on me long enough to pull heat through my stomach. “Mine.”
Something warm and dangerous flickers under my skin, threading through my sternum. It feels like a shift rather than a spark, like something inching toward a boundary I’m not ready to admit exists.
“We should go in,” I say quickly, before my chest forgets how to do its job.
“Come on, Torres. Survive this, and I’ll run interference at the gala.”
“You’re already on the schedule for that.”
“Yeah,” he says, opening his door. “But tonight, I’m off the clock.”
The words hang between us for a second, more intimate than he probably means them to be, or maybe he means it exactly how I think.
It rattles me more than anything else tonight because I don’t know who I am off the clock anymore.
Off the clock means softness and vulnerability.
Feeling things before analyzing them, and I’m out of practice.
The night air hits when I step out, cool against skin still buzzing from whatever passed between us. Gravel shifts beneath my boots as Kyle rounds the car to meet me. He stands close, not touching, but close enough that I feel the nearness like a hand pressed against my spine.
The porch lights glow like a furnace in the dark as we walk toward the door together.
“We’re here,” he calls, pushing the door open before glancing back at me. “Ready?”
No, not even a little. “Sure,” I respond as we step inside.
The warmth hits first, curling around me with the unmistakable scent of a home that’s been lived in for generations.
Something roasted and rich drifts through the hallway, tangled with garlic and butter and fresh herbs.
There’s a flash of lemon—bright, clean, and unexpected—that slices through the heaviness and makes the whole place feel alive.
I toe off my boots in the entryway, lining them up neatly next to a riotous pile of Hendrix footwear: boots and sneakers piled without pattern, a pair of oversized basketball shoes, jackets half-slipped off their hooks, and a Timberwolves cap hanging crooked on the newel post like it’s part of the décor.
“Hey!” Ramona barrels down the hallway, locs swinging, wrapped in an oversized sweatshirt that reads MARRIED the way her cheeks pink slightly is the only sign she heard any of their exchange. The kitchen continues to move like a well-practiced storm.
Beau is at the stove stirring something under Mrs. Mel’s supervision.
Ramona is slicing tomatoes at the island, while Cole maims a bell pepper with theatrical confidence.
Although every time he tries to sneak a slice into his mouth, Ramona slaps his hand away and mutters, “Michele said ‘no chaos’ tonight.”
I file the name away, pretending to know who Michele is, as I scan the room, confused.
“Where’s Cooper?”
“Banished.” Ramona snorts.
From a room off to the left of the kitchen entrance, Cooper’s voice erupts with righteous indignation. “I’m not banished. I was providing structure to the chaos.”
Mrs. Mel doesn’t even turn. “You were micromanaging the garlic, baby. Now hush.”
“I wasn’t micromanaging anything. I was offering guidance!”
“You tried to take the spoon out of my hand,” Beau calls back.
“You told him his stirring lacked leadership,” Alise adds.
“It did!” Cooper yells. “The garlic deserves conviction!”
“This is him calm.” Kyle leans in as I press my lips together to keep from laughing.
“You gonna finish setting that table?” Momma hollers.
“I already did,” Cooper responds sheepishly. “Twice.”
“Then do it again,” Momma says. “You missed the water glasses.”
“I was getting to that.”
Ramona sighs like this is completely normal. “We’re hoping table duty keeps him occupied for five minutes.”
“It won’t,” Kyle mutters.
“Okay,” I say, scanning the room because this is a crisis scene waiting to happen. “Please tell me someone has a list of assignments. This feels like a situation that needs a flowchart.”
Everyone stops just long enough to look at me before Cole mutters, “That’s the hottest thing anyone’s ever said in this kitchen.”
Mrs. Mel whips her towel at him. “Boy, hush.”
“Balance is important, Momma,” Cole says. “You wouldn’t understand.”