Page 115 of Taking Turns

I finish my drink and stand up. “Yeah,” I say. “I’ll do that. We can finish this game and then decide after. I’m gonna take off, man. Have fun this weekend.”

“Later,” Bric calls out.

But I’m already hopping down the stairs and heading towards the revolving doors. I’ve got an idea for a Christmas present.

Something she probably needs, but won’t ever ask for.

Something she didn’t get nearly enough of growing up.

Chapter Thirty - Chella

“Hey,” I call out when I get home from work. “You here?”

Smith peeks out from behind the wall of the kitchen. “What’s up?”

“Nothing,” I say, hanging up my coat in the closet and then hopping up the stars to the main living level. I walk into the kitchen and find him… cooking. “What are you doing?”

“Christmas Eve Eve dinner, Marcella. It was a tradition in my adoptive house.”

“Hmm,” I say, pulling out one of the barstools and taking a seat. “What do you cook for a Christmas Eve Eve dinner?”

“Traditional Baldwin etiquette says a whole bunch of pretentious bullshit only a chef can make, like crown roast or leg of lamb.”

“That sounds good!” I say. “I’m starving!”

“Chella,” Smith says, shooting me a sidelong look as he slips his hands into potholders. “I’m Smith. I made mac and cheese.”

I laugh. “That sounds good too.” He opens the oven and takes out a casserole dish, gingerly setting it down on a trivet to protect my countertops. “You do realize that what you’re doing right now is lady porn?”

Smith smiles but doesn’t look at me. “Cooking?” he asks.

“And vacuuming. If you really want to turn me on, you’d vacuum the whole house. And dust. Bonus points for using lemon-scented wood polish.”

“You’re funny, Marcella Walcott.”

“OK,” I say, tucking down my smile. “So what’s all this about? Since when do you cook? And hey—did you… clean up your mess on the dining room table?”

He glares at me. “Your fucking father showing up got me all paranoid that someone else will come over unexpectedly.”

“Like who?”

“I don’t know. Your friends, maybe? I don’t do friends, Chella. I don’t do fathers either. But I had no choice.”

I lean over the island and grab a breadstick from a basket. “I’m sorry you had to see all that. And I’m sorry I was moody last night. You were really perfect, Smith. And I appreciate it.”

“So you’re over it?” he asks, then dips a fork in his mac and cheese and takes a bite. “It’s good,” he says, putting the fork down and going to the cupboard for plates. “I didn’t think you’d be so calm about it tonight, to be honest.”

“Is that why you’re cooking? To make me feel better?”

He walks over to the small kitchenette table next to the living room and sets the plates down. “Maybe a little. I guess. But mostly because I got it out of Quin that your family never celebrated Christmas.” He stops to shoot me a pretend glare. “I owe him something big for that secret, I hope you know that.”

“Then why didn’t you just let it go?” I ask, chewing on my breadstick. “Is this homemade?”

Smith glares at me again and I can’t stop the chuckle that escapes.

“I mean”—he continues his thought—“even I had a Christmas every year. And since Quin beat me to a tree, I figured I’d go for food.” He comes back into the kitchen and grabs the silverware and some white linen napkins, folded into the envelope design, like at the Club.

“Did you bring… fancy napkins from the Club?”