Page 57

I pulled out my phone in the truck and texted my sister.

Me

Back in Montana.

Her reply came fast.

Vivienne

I thought you were staying in Seattle for Christmas?

Me

Change of plans. Believe it or not, our family isn’t the most dysfunctional one out there.

Vivienne

I’m not so sure about that. Call me later. I need to talk to you about something.

I stared at the message for a second, then pocketed my phone. Vivienne could wait. I knew she was still upset I hadn’t come home for Christmas, but whatever it was probably wasn’t a big deal. I’d call her later.

Foster drove us straight to the apartment he shared with Abby and Mason. It was the same apartment Sam and Abby had shared before Foster and Abby started dating. When Abby’s grandma died, Abby had been burning the candle at both ends juggling her classes, her job at the tutoring center, and her internship at a local engineering firm while living at her gram’s house thirty minutes away. Foster had come up with the idea for him and Sam to switch places, so Abby and Mason could live in their apartment with Foster helping out, and we’d all been on board. Sam had lived in the hockey house ever since, even though she’d offered to leave at the start of this school year so we could open up the room to another hockey player. But none of us had wanted her to move out, me especially.

When we walked in, the living room looked like Christmas on a budget. There were colorful lights strung around the front window and a small fake tree in the corner with presents underneath. Three stockings hung from command strips on the wall next to the TV.

From the kitchen, I could hear Abby’s voice and a lower one responding—Mason, most likely. Abby’s brother had recently turned eighteen and had been living with Abby and Foster since their grandmother died. The kid had been dealt a rough hand, but he didn’t let that get him down. Foster, Drew, Liam, and I had made it our mission to take him out once a week so he had guy time. Since we’d started doing that, he’d really come out of his shell.

Abby came around the corner and booked it straight for Sam, hugging her tight and whispering something in her ear that I couldn’t hear. Sam’s arms wrapped around her just as tightly. The two of them stood there for long enough that Foster and I exchanged a glance and quietly moved past them. We’d left our bags in the truck since Foster would still need to take us back to the hockey house after dinner.

When they finally separated, Abby caught my eye and mouthed thank you.

I gave her a nod even if I was tired of women thanking me for doing the decent thing. What kind of world did we live in where they felt a thank you was owed for being a good, supportive person? That should’ve been the standard.

Mason appeared in the kitchen doorway, a wooden spoon in one hand. “Hey, Sam. Gordy.” He lifted the spoon in greeting. “Gordy, want to come in and take a look at things? You’re a better cook than Abby.”

“Hey!” Abby stared at her brother with fake hurt on her face. “I’m a decent cook, thank you very much.”

Mason’s smile grew wide—it was good to see him so happy. “Yeah, okay, sis. But Gordy might as well be a professional.”

Sam laughed a bright and happy laugh that made my gut tighten with a feeling only she stirred up in me. It was the first real smile she’d had on her face since the ice rink, and it was a relief to see it.

“Let me see this feast you’ve prepared,” I said, heading toward the kitchen. We’d been over here enough times that I knew where everything was and it had been almost two weeks since I’d cooked anything. I missed being in a kitchen and whipping up a meal to feed my friends.

Feeding people the food I made felt like the best act of love I could give to the people who’d become more family to me than any of my blood relations—apart from maybe my sister.

They’d started a turkey breast and had potatoes, green beans, and the ingredients for gravy laid out on the counter. Mason had clearly been on chopping duty—there was a cutting board with unevenly diced onions next to a pile of potato peels. I rolled up my sleeves and took over.

Cooking had always made sense to me when other things didn’t. The logic of it—heat, timing, the way flavors built on each other when you gave them the right conditions or knew the right combos—was the closest thing to meditation I’d ever found. Pop had taught me that during the first summer I spent in Big Sky, standing over a cast-iron skillet in his kitchen. He’d said cooking was the only honest work because you couldn’t fake the result. Either it tasted good or it didn’t.

I seasoned the turkey breast and put it back in the oven, then moved to the potatoes. I salvaged the uneven chops the best I could so they’d cook evenly and then dropped them into a pot of salted water. The gravy on the stove was stuck to the bottom of the pan and way thicker than gravy should be. I tossed it out and started from scratch in a clean sauce pan with the turkey drippings, a splash of white wine, and chicken stock.

Mason leaned against the counter and watched me work. “You’re way better at this than I am.”

“Just takes some practice. When I first started cooking, my chopped potatoes looked a lot like yours.”

“You’re just saying that to make me feel better.”

I made eye contact. “Not even a little. Yours actually might be better than mine were.”