Page 35 of Pumpkin Spice Promises

“You didn’t know it when you first called.”

“I learned it afterward.”

Clover’s hazel eyes widened. “So you asked.”

“I saw the registration.”

“That’s significantly less romantic.”

“Nothing about it was romantic.”

Hunter followed her into the room, moving with the quiet, measured confidence that made most people give him more space than he wanted. His dark hair was cut short, and the scarring along the right side of his face pulled slightly as he gave me a restrained smile while resting his prosthetic arm naturally at Clover’s waist. The corresponding leg made his gait subtly uneven, but after years of living with both, he moved without hesitation.

He nodded toward me. “Carson made it home?”

“She did.”

Clover turned. “You know Carson?”

“I’ve met her,” Hunter replied.

“When?”

“At the feed store. Once.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?”

Hunter looked at her with the patient expression of a man who had already accepted that most conversations with his wife contained questions he could not reasonably answer.

“You never asked.”

Clover opened her mouth, apparently prepared to argue with that logic, then reconsidered as Mom began carrying dishes to the table, saving Hunter from further interrogation.

“Sit before everything gets cold.”

We all obeyed.

Mom had made enough food to feed twice our number: roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, gravy, green beans, macaroni and cheese, cornbread, and a salad nobody would touch until she reminded us.

Jax reached for a roll. Mom slapped the back of his hand with a serving spoon.

“Wait for everyone.”

“I’m thirty-one.”

“And still lacking manners.”

Dad took his place at the head of the table, his old thermos sitting beside his plate, despite Mom having made a fresh pitcher of sweet tea. His hair had gone mostly silver over the last few years, though a few darker strands remained near the back. Retirement had softened his middle, but not the broad shoulders built through decades of garage work.

He lifted the thermos. “To surviving another family dinner.”

“We haven’t started yet,” Clover said.

“Exactly.”

Mom sat at the opposite end and gave him a look that would have frightened a weaker man. Dad merely drank his coffee.

Once the food began moving around the table, conversation returned to the easy chaos I had grown up with. Clover complained about June refusing to put Christmas cookies on the bakery menu before November. Dad argued that September 1st was too early for pumpkin decorations. Mom reminded him that he had helped hang orange lights along Main Street the previous night. Jax claimed he had been forced. Hunter quietly ate while Clover put more food on his plate every time she thought he wasn’t looking.