His reaction was so swift, so confident, that I forgot whatever I’d been about to say.
He liked my food. Why did that surprise me? He ate whatever I put on his plate. He never left so much as a crumb behind. Still, it was nice to hear.
I hadn’t realized until now how much I wanted him to like my food. To like me. They were one and the same.
The door opened, stealing Vance’s attention as he looked over my shoulder.
That freaking bell. I was starting to resent the jingle.
With a sigh, I twisted in my seat, smiling as Sandy came inside. She ran the kitchen shop down the street, a popular store with tourists and locals alike.
“Hey, Sandy,” I said, getting to my feet.
“Hi, Lyla.” She swept a lock of gray hair out of her face. “I’m freezing. Something is wrong with the furnace at the store, so I’m here for one of your magical lattes to chase away the cold.”
“A magical latte.” I laughed. “I can do that. Vanilla, like usual?”
“It’s my favorite.”
“Mom’s in the kitchen if you want to go say hi.”
“Oh, good. I haven’t seen her in weeks, so I’d love to catch up.”
“I’ll bring your coffee back in a few.”
She nodded, her gaze darting to Vance, but she didn’t introduce herself. She just wandered through the shop and ducked into the kitchen.
Vance’s chair legs scraped on the floor as he stood and grabbed his coat. “I’m going to head to my room. Take a shower.”
“Okay.” I never asked if he was coming to my house later. Granted, he came over each night, but still, I never asked. I didn’t want him to think I was clingy. I didn’t want to hear him say no.
We weren’t a couple. We didn’t make plans. We didn’t date. It was better that way, right?
I turned for the counter, about to leave, but stopped. Wait. Why couldn’t we make plans?
“Do you want to go to the ranch on Friday for dinner?” I blurted before thinking it through. It sounded so eerily like my mother’s voice that I cringed.
She’d put the idea in my head and it had just snuck out. Damn it.
“No pressure.” My face began to flame. “Mom is planning a family dinner at the ranch on Friday and mentioned it. If you’re sick of eating at restaurants every night and want something homemade . . .”
It was official. I hated the word homemade. And just like my mother, I was now insulting my own business. Nice, Lyla.
“Sorry. This is weird.” I waved it off. “Ignore me. My family is a lot, and I just wanted to offer in case—”
“Blue.”
Oh God. Here came the polite decline. And I probably wouldn’t see him tonight either.
I couldn’t meet his gaze. I didn’t want to know what color his eyes turned when they were full of pity. So I stared at the floor instead. “Yeah?”
“What time is dinner Friday?”
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
VANCE
The Edens were loud.
Not just in volume—though Lyla’s family laughed like there was a decibel quota to meet over dinner. They were loud in other ways. Their smiles. Their hugs. Their love.
It had been a long time since I’d been to a Sutter family dinner. Maybe my memory was failing me, but the only time I recalled my family being loud was the very last dinner. The one where everything had fallen apart. Not a good loud.
The Edens were a good loud.
Anne and Harrison sat on opposite ends of the dining room table and, between them, their children and grandchildren.
The table itself, a smooth, black walnut piece with matching chairs, was new. It lacked the dents and dings of furniture that had seen more than a handful of family functions. It was slightly too large for the space, but that was likely because it had been bought with this crush of people in mind.
A large family needed a large table. Even if it was crowded, Anne and Harrison probably wanted each person here to have a seat. They’d even made space for the little ones and their high chairs.
No surprise, Lyla’s parents were good people. Anne had welcomed me with a hug. Harrison with a firm handshake. And then Lyla’s siblings had descended, nosy but not intrusive.
They’d asked questions but hadn’t pried into my personal life. Instead, they’d learned tonight that I preferred whiskey over beer. That I liked my steaks medium rare. And that my favorite color was blue.
Lyla’s blue.
Though I hadn’t been that specific when Eloise had asked a few moments ago.
“Blue would have been a good color choice,” Knox said.
“I didn’t want blue.” Anne jutted up her chin. “I wanted yellow.”
“But it’s not yellow, Mom.”
“Of course it’s yellow.” Anne had recently painted the powder room down the hall. Tonight was the first anyone but Harrison had seen it. “The color is called mustard. Mustard is yellow.”
“It looks like baby poop,” Griffin said.
“Griff,” Winn scolded.
“What? It does.”
“It’s not the color of baby poop.” Anne harrumphed, then adjusted Griff and Winn’s daughter, Emma, on her lap. “Change your daughter’s diaper once in a while and you’ll know the difference.”
Griffin just laughed and shook his head, making a face at his two-year-old son, Hudson, who was making a hell of a mess in his booster seat with some Play-Doh.
Some dads didn’t change diapers, but I suspected that none of the men here shied away from a loaded Pampers.
“It’s sort of baby poop, Mom,” Talia said, her hand splayed on her pregnant belly.
She and her husband, Foster, were having a boy. Current name options were Kaiden or Jude. I’d voted for Jude.
“Are all of my children color-blind?” Anne asked the room. “It’s yellow.”
Harrison hid his laughter in the beer bottle pressed to his lips.
“It’s not that bad.” Jasper’s arm was draped around the back of Eloise’s chair, his hand on her shoulder. He was rarely far from her side, and if she was close, he touched her in some small way.
I’d seen that sort of constant touch before. Jasper’s obsession with Eloise had taken me off guard at first. Maybe just from my own personal history, but the hairs on the back of my neck had stood on end as I’d watched them from the corner of my eye almost constantly.
But after hours of seeing them together, I realized it was different than Andrea and Brandon.
Jasper didn’t touch Eloise to possess her, to control her. He touched her like she was his tether to the earth. Like without her, he’d drift away on a breeze. He loved her.
There was a lot of love at this table.
Lucky table.
“Thank you, Jasper.” Anne gave him a proud smile.
“Kiss ass,” Knox teased. “It’s hideous.”
“It’s not hideous.” Memphis, Knox’s wife, gave Anne a sweet smile. “I like it too.”
Knox and Memphis each had a kid in their arms. Memphis was feeding their baby boy, Harrison Eden, a bottle. Knox stroked their oldest son’s back.
Drake had fallen asleep about an hour ago, even with all this noise. We’d finished dessert. The dirty plates were still scattered across the table. He’d had his last bite of brownies and ice cream, then crawled into Knox’s arms. He’d rested his head on his dad’s shoulder, and five minutes later, he’d conked out.
“We’re taking a poll.” Anne aimed her gaze at Foster seated next to her. “What do you think?”
“I like it,” he said, sharing a quick look with Jasper.
I’d learned tonight that the two of them had worked together for years while Foster had been in the UFC. Jasper had been Foster’s trainer until he’d retired, and both had moved to Quincy about the same time.
They’d shared a few looks tonight, unspoken messages flying across this table.
Once upon a time, I’d had that sort of friendship. Brotherhood.
With Cormac.
Lyla put her hand on my thigh beneath the table, her delicate touch chasing away the past.
I covered her knuckles with my palm, drawing circles on her skin with my thumb.
“Lyla?” Anne arched her eyebrows at her daughter, waiting for her vote.
“I don’t think it’s the color of baby poop, Mom. More like split-pea soup.”
Anne’s jaw dropped. “It’s not green.”
“It’s got a green tint.”
I clamped my teeth together, fighting the laugh that Lyla’s brothers couldn’t hide.
“Vance?” Anne asked, her eyes pleading.
“Yellow,” I lied. “It’s definitely yellow.” It was split-pea, baby-poop green.
Her entire face lit up.
So did Lyla’s. She smiled, knowing I’d lied for her mother’s sake.
“Do we really need to vote?” Mateo asked. “I’ll just tell you how it’s going to go. Your kids hate the color. Your kids-in-law also hate the color, but they love you too much to tell you the truth.”
“So not only are you criticizing my taste, now you’re saying you don’t love me.” Anne picked up her cloth napkin and threw it at his head. “Get out. You’re no son of mine.”
Mateo caught the napkin and laughed, a deep, hearty laugh that was the same as his father’s and brothers’.