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She looks up at him and gives him a saccharine sweet smile. “As if you’ll be alive that long to see it, old man.”
He feigns offense, pressing his hand over his chest. “Ouch. That one hurt.”
She playfully elbows him, then walks away, probably to find something to entertain herself with that isn’t one of the board games meant for her younger sister and cousins.
Angie is right; she isn’t a kid anymore. She won’t even let anyone call her “Angel” like we used to when she was a child. She’s a young adult, and she probably should be brought in on what’s happening, but I don’t want to ruin her Christmas with the reality of what Jude suffered.
I stare out the window at all the lights in the yard and the fake Santa and reindeer on the lawn. Despite the warmth of the house and laughter and Christmas music filling it, a chill rolls down my spine and the hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
It’s one of my feelings again, and I hate it.
It usually means something bad is coming, but this should be a joyous day, not one full of trepidation and worry.
I just need to shake it off and get in the spirit.
* * *
SKYE
Mom gives me a look as I return to the kitchen. “What’s everyone whispering about?”
Shit.
I wince and cut my gaze to Storm, who gives me a look that tells me she knows, too, and plans to keep her mouth shut. “Nothing, Mom. Just that Byron and Luca will be here soon with Jude.”
Not a complete lie.
That’susuallythe key to getting one by Antonia Hawke—keep a little bit of the truth in there.
Mom nods, eyeing me suspiciously, as I pull out the seasoned ricotta to start making the stuffed shells. Storm comes over to help, giving me another look that screams,I hope she doesn’t push this.
Our mother is far too perceptive for her own good sometimes. It’s useless to try to keep things from her—same with Savage. Definitely an inherited trait.
Mom moves to the oven and slides in the lasagna, then turns back to me, crossing her arms over the “Kiss the Chef” apron Savage gave her for her birthday last year. “That’s what Gabe had to pull you out of the kitchen to tell you?”
Too damn observant.
After raising five kids—six, if you count Gabe—she can see through pretty much all of us, andeveryonehas been off today.
Storm forces a smile and glances back at her. “It’s nothing, Mom. Really. We’re just excited to get everyone here to have dinner.”
Again, not a lie.
We’re all waiting for Byron and Luca on pins and needles.
I keep stuffing, avoiding looking at Mom so she won’t be able to see my clear redirection of the conversation. “I grabbed a few things I had bought for the boys and wrapped them for Jude”—I cast a quick peek over my shoulder at Mom—”so he’d have something to open when he got here.”
Mom’s hard gaze softens. “That was very thoughtful of you. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it. You say he doesn’t have any family, right?”
I bite my lip to keep from vomiting the truth.
Storm nods. “That’s my understanding, and it appears he’s going to stay with Luca and Byron, at least for a while.”
It’s another truth, just not all of it, and I can tell Mom wants to dig and ask more, but she doesn’t, probably to avoid an argument on Christmas Day. There will be plenty of them, but she tries not to be the instigator.
She’ll keep trying to pry it out of us, though, and eventually, someone will cave. It’s inevitable where “Nana” is concerned.
She scans the kitchen as if it isn’t the place she’s most at home. “What else do we have left to do?”
