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“Ever had paella?” Will Brady cut in.
“Oh, boy,” Rowan said, tucking her hands in her lap. “I’ve never had it, but it smells incredible.” She tried to not fidget with the napkin.
“Itisincredible,” Gianna said from the other end of the table. “William makes my paella better than I make my paella.”
“If you don’t like it, Dad makes a special kind of paella for the kids. I’m sure they’d share.” Nathan eagerly tucked a napkin into the neckline of his shirt.
The children’s “paella” was simple yellow rice with sliced hot dogs in it, but William served them first with all the gravitas of a waiter at a Michelin-starred restaurant. Then he passed around staggeringly large helpings of the real paella, narrating the recipe as he did. Rich rice made golden by saffron and paprika. Plump Spanish chorizo, shrimp, and clams, garnished with generous slices of lemon and bright green parsley. A long loaf of crusty bread was passed. Everyone broke off a chunk for themselves, crumbs raining to the tablecloth, and they nestled the pieces alongside their paella. Nobody bothered with knives or bread plates.
The rhythm and ritual of this family meal was obviously long established, and Rowan felt anxious about disrupting their beautiful flow. Conversation was free and constant, like it had been scripted in advance, with no tense silences or awkward pauses. The adults engaged the children in the discussions with curiosity and genuine interest in what they had to say.
Once, when Rowan was nine, she went an entire weekend speaking with a terrible Australian accent in an embarrassing bid for attention. Sybil—her mother—hadn’t noticed.
Whether it was the outstanding wine, the incredible food, or the Bradys themselves, Rowan’s initial unease faded, and she settled in as a comfortable—though silent—observer. Harrison loomed at the edge of her vision, and they bumped thighs a few times. He didn’t say much, but he often laughed quietly, listening to the exchanges between others. Every time, the deep vibration of his laugh entered her—somehow soothing and stirring.
She’d just taken a big bite of shrimp when Gianna leaned in and said, “Tell us about your family, Rowan,” like it was a normal and natural thing.
Pain was an emergency brake. Discussing her family with this beautifully cohesive group seemed almost offensive.
“Oh.” Rowan stalled, dabbing her mouth with her napkin. “I grew up with my mom and my grandma Edie. The three of us. Little house on the coast. Edie and I were very close, but she passed away when I was twelve. I didn’t—well, my dad left before I was born. I didn’t know him.” Everyone watched her, expecting more. “Um. That—that’s it. Just them.”
Edie had been the only real caretaker she had ever known. Her only true family. She’d insulated Rowan from Sybil’s maternal disinterest, and when Edie died, stability and affection had evaporated like dew in the summer sun. Sybil McKinnon had been physically and emotionally absent, and Rowan, being an anxious, cerebral child, had always thoughtshewas theproblem. So, she’d tried to be more outgoing. More typical, less difficult. But nothing worked. At best, Sybil treated her like a roommate, and on the worst days, a burden. Twelve-year-old Rowan had to learn very quickly to fend for herself, washing her own clothes, buying milk and canned goods and maxi pads at the little gas station that doubled as a bait shop down by the water. Forging Sybil’s signature on permission slips from school and cutting her own bangs when they drifted into her eyes.
Across the table, Maren gave her a sympathetic look. Everyone seemed to sense Rowan’s reluctance to share more, and didn’t prod for more details.
Harrison topped off her ice water with the carafe on the table, before refilling his own. Rowan’s heart lurched. Earlier, she’d noticed Nathan doing the same for Maren, and Duncan had done the same for his mother. William had taken responsibility for the kids’.
In the Brady family, nobody had to fill their own glass.
The love and care that came so naturally to this family wasn’t something Rowan received from her own mother. The Bradys had the kind of solid foundation and intuitive affection for each other she’d dreamed of her entire adolescence and young adulthood. It was what she, at twenty, had planned to someday build with Noah Tully, when he’d put an engagement ring on her finger. She’d build her own family and give them everything she’d never had.
That, too, had been a farce.
When the paella was cleared, Gianna brought a platter of cookies from the kitchen, and placed them on the table in front of Rowan and Harrison. “Do you like coconut?” she asked, perching on the edge of the table with hands folded in her lap, eyes glittering.
“I—do,” Rowan said, cautiously.
“There are two kinds of people in this world. People wholike coconut, and people who are wrong.” Gianna said it like she’d declared a universal truth.
Rowan blinked.
“These are my toasted coconut chocolate chip cookies. Duncan says they taste like they have hair in them. Please, have one.”
Rowan hesitated. All Brady eyes were on her. Breaths were held, as though they were waiting for her to declare a side in a longstanding war. She took a cookie, and bit cautiously. The crisp outer crust cracked, and the gooey warm center melted on her tongue. She rolled her eyes in bliss.
Gianna clapped once, leapt to her feet, and shot a triumphant finger-snap at Duncan. “See? Would someone make that lovely face if it tasted like hair?”
Duncan gave a theatrical shudder. “Ma, I have never said coconut tasted like hair. Itfeelslike hair. In the mouth.”
Nathan ate an entire cookie in one bite and made a show of brushing crumbs from his hands as he left the dining room. “Still on the losing side, Ducky.”
“Still don’t care, Nate,” Duncan called back.
“Congratulations on choosing correctly, Rowan,” Harrison said. He looked straight into Duncan’s eyes across the table, slowly sinking his teeth into a cookie. His lashes fluttered closed, and he made a quiet, rumblingmmmmsound that did deeply dirty things to Rowan’s insides.
Damn.
Duncan looked away, grumbling. “If I wanted hair in my mouth, I’d eat—”
