Chapter 15 #5
“My mom and I used to do stuff like this,” I said before I could talk myself out of it.
“Not Thanksgiving like this exactly. We didn’t have money-money, not before Richard decided paying for everything made him less of a bastard.
But she’d make a whole meal out of whatever we had.
Music on. Flour everywhere. She’d let me help even though I made it worse. ”
Isa leaned her hip against the counter.
“She sounds like she loved you right.”
My throat closed.
I looked down at the turkey.
“Yeah,” I said.
The word barely came out.
Isa didn’t rush to fill the silence. She just crossed the kitchen, slid her arms around my waist from behind, and pressed her cheek between my shoulder blades.
“No, I get it,” she said quietly. “It’s good.”
I covered her hands with mine.
For a second, I let myself stand there.
Let myself have it.
Her arms around me.
Food in the oven.
A kitchen that did not feel like Richard’s house anymore.
Then the back door opened.
Laughter spilled in first.
Everett.
Then Beckett.
Then Richard’s lower voice.
Isa’s arms slipped from my waist, but she stayed close.
The three of them entered from the patio hall and stopped.
All at once.
The kitchen looked insane compared to the rest of the house. Counters covered. Oven on. Store-brand cranberry sauce in a bowl. Rolls under a towel. Isa barefoot near the island. Me holding a baster like a weapon.
Everett looked around slowly.
“Well,” he said. “This is domestic.”
Beckett’s grin spread. “Did Publix throw up in here?”
Richard said nothing.
That was worse.
His gaze moved over the grocery bags, the open wine drawer, the butter on the counter, Isa’s bare feet, my hand at her lower back.
I waited for shame to hit.
It didn’t.
Not even a little.
Maybe because the kitchen smelled like my mother.
Maybe because Isa was standing beside me.
Maybe because for the first time all day, I was exactly where I wanted to be.
Beckett wandered closer and lifted the edge of the foil over the turkey.
“Save me a drumstick?”
“Not likely,” I said.
Everett laughed. “Still selfish.”
“Still hungry.”
Beckett looked at Isa. “You cook?”
She smiled. “Better than you behave, I’m guessing.”
Everett made a soft sound of appreciation.
Beckett’s grin turned sharper. “Oh, I like her.”
“I don’t care,” I said.
Richard’s eyes moved to me.
For once, I didn’t look away.
He lifted his brows. “This is how you chose to spend Thanksgiving?”
I shrugged.
“This is how I roll, papa.”
Isa made a choking sound beside me.
Everett blinked.
Beckett barked out a laugh.
Richard stared at me like I’d started speaking in tongues.
Good.
Let him wonder.
Let all of them wonder.
Isa slipped her hand into mine under the counter, hidden from them but not from me.
That was when I knew—I was in love with her.
Not because she looked good in my jersey.
Not because she kissed like she wanted to make the rules suffer.
Not because she made Richard blink and Beckett back up and Everett shut his mouth.
Because she had taken one look at the coldest place in my life and decided we were making it warm.
That was it.
That was the whole damn thing.
I loved her.
And I was absolutely screwed.
We stole one of Richard’s bottles of Bordeaux.
Stole might have been too strong a word.
It was his house. His wine. His ridiculous temperature-controlled glass cabinet full of bottles that probably had insurance policies.
But I opened one anyway because fuck it, if a bottle needed a trust fund, it deserved to be drunk with Publix turkey and a girl who made the world less terrible.
Isa watched me read the label.
Her eyes widened. “Drew.”
“What?”
“Do you know how expensive that is?”
“No.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I know it’s red.”
She took the bottle from me, looked at the label again, and laughed under her breath. “This is obscene.”
“Good.” I pulled two glasses down. “Then it finally has a purpose.”
We carried everything outside to a small table near the water instead of the formal dining room. I found candles in a drawer. Isa found a lighter. The night was soft and warm, the bay black and silver beyond the lawn, the dock stretching out under moonlight.
Turkey. Mashed potatoes. Stuffing from a box that tasted better than anything the country club served. Green beans swimming in butter. Sweet potatoes with marshmallows slightly burned on top because I got distracted watching Isa bend into the oven.
She caught me.
I denied it.
She did not believe me.
We ate by candlelight with our knees touching under the table.
The wine was ridiculous.
The turkey was basted to perfection.
The potatoes were creamy.
Isa lifted her glass. “To surviving Thanksgiving.”
I touched mine to hers. “To ruining Richard’s wine cellar.”
“To Publix.”
“To butter.”
She laughed.
I loved that laugh.
I loved it more when she was tired enough to let it come out without checking it first.
Halfway through dinner, she leaned back, eyes bright from wine and candlelight. “This is kind of perfect.”
I looked at the water because looking at her was dangerous.
“Best Thanksgiving ever,” I said.
The words came out before I could dress them up.
Her smile softened.
“Yeah?”
“Yeah.”
Her foot brushed mine under the table.
Not strategy.
Not performance.
Just touch.
I wanted to keep her there forever.
Which was insane.
Midnight existed.
New Year’s Eve existed.
Our fake relationship was seeming less fake by the day. But neither of us discussed that fact.
But for once, sitting under the Miami moon with grocery-store Thanksgiving and stolen Bordeaux between us, I let myself pretend the pretend thing was real.
After dinner, we walked down to the dock.
Isa had changed into one of my old T-shirts and shorts because she’d gotten gravy on her sweater and claimed it was my fault for distracting her near the rolls. Her leg was better but still not perfect, so I stayed close without making a big deal out of it.
The water slapped gently against the pilings.
Far behind us, the house glowed gold and cold.
“Do you swim here?” she asked.
“Used to.”
She looked at me. “Used to?”
I shrugged. “When I was younger. Before I understood how much I didn’t belong.”
Her face shifted.
I hated when my mouth did that.
Got honest without permission.
Then she pulled her shirt over her head.
My brain stopped.
Under it, she wore a black bikini I had not seen her pack and had no business surviving.
“Isa.”
“What?” She stepped out of her shorts. “You said used to. I’m correcting the tense.”
“Your leg.”
“I’m not sprinting. I’m floating.”
“Trainer would kill me.”
“She’s not here. Besides I used to believe salt water fixed everything.” She walked backward toward the edge of the dock, smiling like trouble in moonlight. “Save me if I drown.”