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Ryder takes my one-armed hug next, then gently tugs my ponytail. “Night, Zigs.”
“Night, Ry.”
“Well.” Mom steps up beside me and snuffs out a trio of candles on the table, pinching the flames between her fingers into three curls of smoke. I used to watch her do that as a kid, convinced she was a sorceress, and it was only a matter of time before she told me about my magical powers, too.
Turning toward me, she sets a hand on my back and rubs gently. “This was a nice evening.”
“It was. Thank you, Mom.” I nod subtly toward Sebastian in the kitchen, where he works his way through the dishes, taking the coffee cups from Viggo and shooing him away. “I really appreciate it.”
“Of course, älskling.” She smiles softly, her head tipped as she looks at me. “It was nothing.”
“It wasn’t nothing,” I whisper against the lump in my throat. “Not to me.”
Her smile deepens. “The ones my children love, I love, too. The ones who become their family are my family. What we did tonight, that’s just what family does.”
I nod, smiling. “Yeah. But that doesn’t make it nothing. That makes it special. And good.” Leaning in, I set my head against hers. Mom’s just an inch shorter than me, so our temples rest together easily. She turns and presses a kiss to mine. “I love you,” she whispers in Swedish.
“I love you, too.”
“Speaking of good, Sigrid.” My mom kisses my temple again. “And special. He’s one of them. You keep him close, förstått?”
I smile as I watch Dad join Sebastian in the kitchen, muscling his way in to help, while Viggo packs up the leftover cookies and cakes.
“Förstått,” I tell her.
Sebastian stands outside my apartment building with me, keys swinging on his finger. I need to stop seeing my panties twirling there instead and blushing every time he does it. “Tonight was…really wonderful,” he says. “Thank you.”
“Thank you,” I tell him.
He frowns. “For what?”
“For coming over, spending time with my family. I know they’re a lot.”
“They are,” he agrees. “But the best kind of ‘a lot.’” Slowly, he steps closer, clasping my hand, his thumb brushing my palm. “Thanks for sticking up for me tonight.”
“Sebastian, you don’t have to thank me for that—”
“Yes, I do. It…” He shifts on his feet. “It meant a lot to me.”
I bite my lip, then nod. “Okay.”
His gaze dances over me. “I meant to say you looked very lovely tonight, Ziggy. The emerald coat. The gray off-the-shoulder top. Stylish.”
“Well, I’ve learned from the best.”
“Ah, you figured out what you liked all on your own.” He tips his head and steps back, still holding my hand. His gaze slides down my legs. “Damn, those look good on you.”
He’s talking about my jeans. Tapered leg, mid-rise. Just the right amount of stretchy. Exactly like my old favorites that he cut into shorts, whose tag he read so carefully that first night he came by my place for reasons that were beyond me then. When I came back from my run right before the game tonight, these jeans and two other pairs in dark and black washes were waiting for me in a box propped against my door.
“Oh.” I turn a little, side to side, inspecting them. “These old things? Stop it.”
He laughs. “I don’t think I will.”
I peer up, meeting his eyes. “You sent these, didn’t you?”
“Who, me?” He makes a face. “I would never do something that—”
“Considerate? Thoughtful? Generous?” They aren’t cheap, these jeans. I remember seeing the price tag when Mom bought them for me and nearly choking. I also haven’t been able to find them anywhere.
