Against my better judgment, I head down the back stairs. Voices float up—bright, happy, and female. I pause when I hear Finley’s.
She’s telling a story about baking cookies with her mom. About sugar cookies that came out burnt on the edges, but Santa still ate them and left a note saying he preferred them that way.
“That’s so sweet,” Mallory says.
“My mom was the best. We didn’t have much money, but she always found ways to make things special. Like that note from Santa.”
My chest warms. I can picture five-year-old Finley, proud of those cookies. My parents had more money, but Mom did the same—turned Christmas into something magical.
I’m strangely proud that Mom and Mallory already adore her. That they’re going out of their way to make her feel like part of this family.
Now that I know Finley’s happy—even if she’s not happy with me—I should go back upstairs, shower, and pull myself together.
But her laugh carries through the house, light and easy, and the need to see her with my own eyes nearly drags me into the kitchen.
It’s overwhelming. It’s also concerning. Why do I want to see her so badly?
It’s only because you want to do damage control for last night.
Then let’s do some damage control.
I push out a breath of relief at the thought. Yeah, it’s damage control. That’s all. Feeling more confident, I round the corner into the kitchen, and all eyes turn to me.
“Alex,” Mom says with a warm smile. “You’re up.”
“Yeah.” I rake a hand through my hair. “Sorry I overslept.”
“You look like you needed it,” she says with a concerned look.
Mallory snorts. “You look pretty rough, dude.”
But my gaze turns to Finley. She’s lifting cut-out cookies from the counter to a baking sheet. She sneaks me a quick smile—soft, almost shy—and something in my chest flutters.
What the hell was that? I shake my head, pain spiking through my skull.
“Want me to make you some breakfast?” Mom asks.
The thought makes my stomach roil. “No, I’m good. I’ll just grab a cup of coffee then head up to shower.”
Mom cringes. “There isn’t any. Finley made me and Mallory mochas, and your father and Tyler Americanos.” She laughs. “I don’t think they’re ever going to go back to the Mr. Coffee coffeemaker after this.”
I can’t stop a smile. “Well, she is a barista.” Yesterday I might have cringed to admit it, but now I’m oddly proud.
Finley slides the last cookie onto the tray and carries it to the oven. “Do you want me to make you something?”
“You’re not here to wait on me,” I say sharper than I intended, but the thought of her waiting on me sits wrong. “And you’re not here to do your actual job.”
Finley’s eyes widen, the hurt flashing before she masks it.
“I should hope not,” Mallory snaps.
“Sorry.” I rub my forehead. “I have a killer headache and that came out wrong. I meant that she’s busy and I don’t want to get in her way.”
“Well, unfortunately,” Mom says as she sifts flour into a ceramic mixing bowl, “as I mentioned, we don’t have any brewed coffee.”
I grunt in frustration. If Finley’s already pissed, that last thing I want is to force her to make me a drink. “I don’t need coffee.”
I turn around and head toward the staircase. Better to retreat before I say something else I’ll regret.
