“Wait…” I start, but it’s too late.
The air crackles. A spark leaps from Zane’s touch to Levi, sharp and bright. Levi jerks back with a startled yelp.
“What in the actual fuck?” he gasps, recoiling from Zane’s larger-than-life grasp, hair standing like he wrestled a balloon.
Zane just grins, utterly unrepentant. “Shit. Right. That happens sometimes. Occupational hazard.”
Levi stares are him, wide-eyed. “What are you, a human joy buzzer?”
Porter sighs heavily, rubbing his temples. “You see why we don’t take him anywhere?”
Zane elbows Levi lightly, still grinning. “Your loss. I’m…shockinglygood company.” He winks, clearly far too pleased with himself.
Levi snorts. Porter groans.
And I just pinch the bridge of my nose, knowing full well I’m powerless against Levi’s dangerous optimism…and doomed to endure every catastrophic minute of this dinner.
Who knows, maybe family dinners are just another kind of haunting.
And I’ve never been good at resisting ghosts.
• • •
I’m herded throughthe market against my will like a wayward sheep toward overpriced produce and public humiliation.
The shepherds? Levi and Elijah.
Levi insisted we needed him. That no one threw together a last-minute dinner party or handled messy family dynamics better than Elijah.
I had questions.
Levi had answers.
“So, naturally, you called him?”
“Obviously,” Levi had replied. “Doyouknow how to cook a reconciliation dinner?”
I’d scowled. “That’s a deeply unfair assumption.”
Elijah then popped his head around the corner. “It’s a perfectly accurate assumption, Hayden. I’ve seen your fridge…it’s where good intentions go to die.”
And that had been the end of the discussion.
Which is how I ended up here: fluorescent lights, shoppers who wield carts like gladiators, and overpriced everything. Elijah leads the charge, shopping list held high like a sacred artifact, grabbing ingredients from every aisle.
Levi and I trail behind, whispering urgently like we’re casing the joint to steal diamonds rather than buy vegetables.
“I have no idea what I’m doing,” I utter under my breath, glancing around.
He nudges me with his hip. “Oh, honey. That’s abundantly clear.”
“This”—I gesture to Elijah, who’s studying a bottle of olive oil intently—“feels a touch excessive. It’s dinner, not the Last Supper.”
Levi side-eyes me. “With the immortals you haven’t spoken to since cable television was invented.”
I scowl deeper. “See? That right there. That’s drama, Levi.”
“Itisdramatic,” Levi hisses. “You’re literally hosting a strained family reunion over a roast.”
