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“I think so.”
“They’re super nice,” he tells me for the third time. “They’re just sometimes a little much.”
“Ha. If you could have met my grandmother, you’d know she’s the definition of much.”
Jonah gets out of the car and walks around to my side to open the door, asking, “Did she cook a big spread for turkey day?”
“The biggest. Every surface in the kitchen would be covered with something she cooked or baked.”
“What was your favorite thing that she made?”
He opens the back seat passenger door of his car and takes out a basket of Christmas greenery and flowers he ordered from a florist for his mom. Last night he cleared out his fridge so he could store the basket arrangement in there to, and these were his exact words, “keep it from getting droopy.” He wanted it to look perfect when he gave it to his mom today. I never knew it was possible to get hit in the feels by how incredibly sweet a man could be until I knew Jonah West.
“I know it’s a boring answer, but I have to go with her mashed potatoes and gravy,” I say.
“You can’t beat mashed potatoes and gravy.” Jonah grins as he gestures at the casserole dish. “Want me to carry that for you?”
“Nah, I’ve got it.” I give him a panicked glance as we approach the double wood front doors to his parents’ house. “Ben and Carol, right?”
“Yep.”
Their home is a brick ranch, the yard well maintained. There are about a dozen cars parked here, between the driveway and the street in front. At the front door, I notice a welcome mat that has a turkey holding a sign that says ‘Give Thanks’ and I suddenly feel nervous.
This is foreign territory for me. After my mom died and my dad went to jail, I grew up in a small apartment with my grandma. Her sisters, their families and our neighbors would all come eat with us on holidays, but I was always aware that I was different from my friends at school. I didn’t have a dad carving up a turkey while my mom pulled pumpkin pie from the oven. My grandma mostly made Cuban food for holidays, with a few American dishes sprinkled in.
I mentally scold myself for my nerves. I’m a federal agent, for fuck’s sake. I’ve been in life-threatening situations many times, so why am I so freaked out by Thanksgiving with Jonah’s family?
Because I really like him. And I want his family to like me, too.* * *Jonah
“Renee, welcome!” my mom says as she opens the front door. “We’re so happy to have you here, come on inside.”
She leads Rey inside, taking the dish from her hands and passing it off to one of my aunts as family members crowd into the foyer to get a look at my new girlfriend. Mom embraces her and barely spares me a glance, calling out, “hi, honey” over her shoulder as she takes Rey into the kitchen.
“How’d you get such a pretty woman to go out with you?” my dad teases as he hugs me.
“Dumb luck, I guess.”
“Come on in, we’re in the family room,” he says, taking my coat.
The family room is crowded with my aunts, uncles, grandparents and cousins, all of them greeting me with hugs and my aunts kissing my cheek. The kids are playing out back in the sunroom, but their laughter spills into the family room.
“Is Logan in there with the kids?” I ask my dad.
“He is. They can’t resist the chance to play cops and robbers with an actual cop.”
I go back to the sunroom and see Logan lying face down on the floor, four of our cousins’ kids on top of him.
“You’re under arrest!” six-year-old Carter yells, pulling Logan’s arm up into the air.
“You guys got me. You can stop smashing my bones into the ground,” Logan grumbles.
Eight-year-old Julia is standing on a couch, about to body-slam my brother.
“No talking, bad guy!” she yells as she takes flight.
I just stand back, amused, as she elbows Logan’s back and lands hard on top of him.
“Oof, Julia. Okay, guys, we need to have a talk about the proper way to take a suspect into custody,” Logan mutters, shaking the kids off him and getting to his feet.
“Looks like resisting arrest to me,” I say. “I think you guys should tase him.”
The kids reach for their Nerf guns and Logan makes a big ‘T’ with his arms.
“Timeout, guys,” he says. “The robber needs a break.”
“Aw, that’s not fair,” Carter grumbles.
“You suck, Uncle Logan,” four-year-old Tate says.
“Really?” Logan looks at him, brows arched. “Do you want your dad to know you said that?”
“No!” Tate drops the Nerf gun to the ground. “I’m sorry. Please don’t tell my dad.”
Logan pretends to think about it. “You’ve got to give me seven laps around the house.”
