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“What are we talking about?” Loch’s voice draws our attention toward the back door when he walks in.
I touch the ring, turning it slightly and admiring it. “Your mom’s degree in art and . . .” Holding up my hand, I waggle my fingers. “And the new ring I bought when shopping with Lark.” He comes around, slides down next to me on the couch, and touches it. “It’s an olive branch and just spoke to me.”
“It’s pretty, like you.” He kisses me.
“I think that’s my cue to check on the turkey.”
We laugh, but I turn enough to say, “It was nice talking to you, Delta.”
“You, too.” Tying her apron around her waist, she asks, “You never told me your favorite part of Thanksgiving. I want to make sure we have it.”
I want to say this family. How can I not? They’ve opened their hearts and home and treated me like one of their own. I stuff those emotions down because it’s too soon to wish I was a part of this family, to wish it were my own. Instead, I say, “I love warm rolls with lots of butter.”
She smiles. “A woman after my own heart. Warm rolls are coming right up.”
25
Tuesday
Port and Delta have gone to bed, Marina had a friend come to sleep over and disappeared to her room hours ago, but Noah is holding court like the king of the castle. It’s quite entertaining since he’s probably a drink past what he should have consumed.
“So I say to her,” he says, “you got one Westcott. You’re not getting two.”
“Noah,” Harbor warns. “Enough. Lark and Tuesday don’t want to hear about this.”
Loch rocks forward on the couch next to me and sets his beer on the table. “None of us do.” He scrubs a hand over his face, then looks at me. “You ready for bed?”
I nod.
The Westcotts have their hands full with Loch’s youngest brother. He comes off as a lot of fun to hang out with, but he’s also a heartbreaker. We’ve laughed a lot tonight, with everyone sharing stories from when they were teenagers and in college.
Not once am I made to feel excluded because I have nothing to share. I just like watching Loch with his family.
Noah groans. “I was getting to the good part. No one cares to know who I’m talking about?”
Standing, Loch offers me both hands and pulls me to my feet. He says, “I don’t.”
“Good because it was a girl Harbor hooked up with.”
“Fucking hell, Noah. Shut the fuck up.” Harbor stands. “My wife is right here.”
Lark is laughing, though. She stands and straightens her shirt before patting her husband on the chest. “Don’t forget, I grew up here. Rumors spread like wildfire up and down the grapevine from Beacon to the Pointe.” She rolls her attention my way and laughs again. “He acts so innocent.” Taking his hand, she pulls him toward the front of the house. “Come on. You can show me what a bad boy you are upstairs.” She sing-songs, “Good night.”
“Good night,” I say. “Happy Thanksgiving.”
Loch stops in the kitchen and fills two glasses with water while I wait on the other side of the island.
Noah’s still riding his alcohol high when he holds up his phone. “Guess I’ll have to find someone else to entertain tonight. The old folks are all going to bed.”
Loch starts laughing. “Nice try, but we’re going to bed.”
“Poor sports.”
“Eh, I’m sure you’ll find a better way to pass the time than spending it with us ‘old folks.’ Just keep it down. We don’t want to listen to you ‘entertaining’ yourself all night.”
“That’s a lot of air quotes, bro.”
My guy shrugs. He’s adorably tipsy and spills water over the lip of the glass as he hands it to me. Coming around the marble island, he cups my face and kisses me.
Noah says, “Get this guy to bed. He can’t hold his beer. Night.”
I caress Loch’s hands on my cheeks. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of him,” I reply with laughter. “Night.” Hugging him to me, I whisper, “I’ll make sure he gets the best care ever.”
His erection catches on fast . . . and hard. I grin from the pun. “I definitely think it’s time for bed.”
There’s no fight to be had. Loch leads me upstairs to his room in the kid’s wing of this mansion. Although I saw it when I freshened up when we arrived, I spent the day downstairs enjoying his family’s company.
Now, in this bedroom that could rival most Manhattan apartments in size, I take a moment to really look around. Besides the normal bedroom furniture, this room is so all-American—trophies, books, photos, flags from his university, degrees hung on the wall, a letterman’s jacket on a hook by the door. I walk the perimeter as Loch opens his suitcase. “You were being honest when you said you never failed at anything.”
