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Patty immediately snorted, elbowing one of them. “Leave the workaholic alone,” Patty teased, waving a hand dismissively. “She’s been doing graphic design templates for two weeks straight. Her brain is ninety percent algorithms right now. If it doesn’t involve a screen, she doesn’t understand.” The cousins laughed, dropping the subject.

I sighed with relief. My brain was fried, but not just from work. To the rest of the pack, I was just the eccentric, nomadic relative who had spent too much time living in the city. In reality, I was a woman one wrong syllable away from a catastrophic exposure event.

Later at the buffet, I leaned over the long table to grab a pair of metal tongs, intending to load a roll onto my paper plate, when the air beside me shifted.

Trevor and Mason had materialized on either side of the last platter of smoked brisket. Trevor’s shoulders dropped low, his chest broadening as he let out a low, vibrating rumble that sounded less like a teenager grumbling and more like an idling lawnmower engine. Mason didn’t back down. He squared his broad frame, his jaw shifting until his canine teeth caught the afternoon sunlight, noticeably sharper and longer than they’d looked two minutes ago.

Then they started to circle.

It wasn’t a normal human squabble where people jabbed elbows or raised their voices. They moved in a tight, deliberate radius with synchronized precision. Their eyes stayed locked, pupils blown wide, chest-rumbles escalating into a snarl that vibrated straight through the soles of my sneakers.

I froze, tongs hovering inches above a tub of potato salad, utterly paralyzed.

Is this a normal family disagreement, or am I about to witness a live-action murder over smoked brisket? Should I drop the tongs? If I drop the tongs, will the sudden noise trigger their instinct to hunt me for sport?

I slowly backed away, holding my paper plate against my chest like a shield to protect my internal organs. Note to self: if meat is involved, do not stand in the splash zone.

Through it all, my only anchor was Hudson. Every time I looked up through the crowd, his green eyes seemed to be tracking me. At one point, he broke away from a group of older pack members and made a direct, purposeful line toward me.

My heart did a dramatic flip. But before he could cover half the distance, Grandma Ruth intercepted him by the crook of his elbow, gesturing aggressively toward a leaking cooler. He shot a look of lingering reluctance over his shoulder at me, but duty won, and he was dragged away.

A little later, while I was sitting at the edge of the pavilion, he tried again. He got within ten feet before a Carpenter uncle slapped a heavy hand on his shoulder, drawing him into what looked like a tense debate about property lines. Hudson answered him, but his gaze drifted past the man’s shoulder, locking onto mine across the lawn with a quiet intensity that made my breath catch.

He finally managed to break free and slid onto the bench directly across from me at the dinner table, though the chaotic nature of the family meant his absolute maximum window of safety was about four minutes.

“You’re barely touching the potatoes,” he noted, his low tone slicing right through the surrounding chatter.

“I am practicing portion control,” I said, lifting a forkful of the potatoes as a shield against the sheer effect of his presence. “Unlike certain men who consider a light breeze and half a protein bar a balanced breakfast.”

A slow, genuine smile broke across his rugged features, lifting the tension from his face. “I ate a full plate of eggs this morning, Sloane. The machine is fully operational.”

God. Why did he have to mention his machine in front of me? Heat pooled low in my stomach, and it made me feel ridiculous.

“Evidence,” I countered, leaning forward slightly, completely forgetting the crowd around us. “I respect evidence, not grandiose claims.”

Before he could respond, Hilary shouted his name, waving a clipboard as a summons to court. Hudson closed his eyes and inhaled deeply before looking back at me with unmistakable disappointment. “Don’t move. I’ll be right back.”

“Go save the day,” I told him.

I watched his broad shoulders disappear into the family chaos, a sudden, inconvenient tightness settling beneath my ribs. When I turned back around, Patty was staring at me over the rim of her soda cup, her eyes narrowed in a way that was entirely too analytical.

“You two are being incredibly weird,” she remarked casually.

I almost choked on a piece of roll, my cheeks instantly turning a bright, telling pink. “We are not being weird. We’re having a standard, usually text-based accountability check.”

“He just looked at you as though you were the only non-annoying person within a fifty-mile radius,” Patty said, setting her cup down with a soft click. “And you looked at him as if he just handed you the moon on a gold-plated platter. That qualifies as weird behavior.”

“It’s nutritional logistics, nothing more,” I insisted, desperately hoping the heat in my face wouldn’t give away just how thoroughly shaken I was. Patty didn’t push it. She just gave me a small, quiet smile.

After dinner, the noise increased. The music grew in volume. Chairs scraped. Children ran inside and outside, shrieking at the top of their lungs like kids usually did for some reason. Someone started a cornhole tournament with rules that went far beyond the game’s original design. Several younger people argued over who could shift the quietest, and I escaped before anyone invited me to demonstrate, finding a quiet spot near the wall to watch.

This was what family looked like when nobody worried about taking up space. People interrupted, laughed too loudly, touched shoulders while passing, corrected stories, stole food from one another’s plates, and argued without threatening the relationship underneath it.

My own family could spend an entire vacation together without saying anything of substance.

The Blackwells had been together six hours and discussed everything from zoning policy to irregular bowel movement. It was overwhelming, but it was oh so wonderful.

A crash sounded near the kitchen. Several children shouted. Caldwell appeared in the doorway with his hands covering his ears. His face had gone pale, and he was breathing too fast. Julie hurried to him, but three other people also turned, and the sudden attention seemed to make everything worse.