By the time we finally sit down at the table, I feel like I’ve run a marathon. My curls are frizzing around my temples from the steam in the kitchen, my blouse smells like fried fish, and my glucose monitor has already beeped once. But the table’s set, the food’s hot, and the guests have arrived. All I need to do is survive the next couple of hours without flipping the table or strangling anyone.
Cormac Doyle is exactly as Declan described him—loud, ruddy-cheeked, already two drinks deep. He plants himself at the head of the table with a grunt and a laugh, pulling his cloth napkin into his collar like it’s a lobster bib.
His wife, Marge, settles beside him with all the delicacy of a crane folding its wings—thin, composed, her wiry arms resting neatly in her lap. She hasn’t said much since they walked through the door, but her eyes haven’t stopped moving, scanning every detail of my home like she’s mentally cataloging each picture frame and knickknack.
“This is a lovely home,” she says at last, her tone clipped. “Your decor is charming but not overdone.”
The compliment catches me off guard.
“Oh. Thank you,” I say, smiling politely. “I’ve been slowly adding things here and there. I wanted it to feel warm.”
Marge nods, like I’ve passed some silent test.
From beside her, Cormac slaps the table with his palm and leans back in his chair. “Y’know, I knew the bloke who used to live in this house with his wife and kid. Name was Greg… no, Garrett… no, Gareth! That was it. Gareth something. Sad story, though. Poor sod offed himself?—”
“Cormac,” Marge hisses, shooting him a sharp look. “Can we please be civilized at the dinner table?”
Declan and I exchange glances across the plates of food. He arches a brow, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing out of sheer discomfort. Chelsea, seated beside Willow, pretends to be deeply interested in folding her napkin.
The conversation shifts when the food starts making its way around. Fried catfish, mac and cheese bubbling at the edges, and of course, the mustard greens, which are still a sore spot in the back of my mind.
Cormac digs in like a man who hasn’t seen a home-cooked meal in weeks. “Jesus, this is good,” he says through a mouthful of fish. “Tell me there’s more where that came from. I’ll be begging for seconds.”
Marge nibbles on a corner of her plate like a bird. She pushes the greens around with her fork, then takes a small bite. “The greens are... unusual.”
Chelsea pipes up, tone cheerful. “Funny story, actually. We accidentally picked up the wrong kind at the store, didn’t we, Amerie?” She pauses for a laugh. “But I think they turned out lovely. You seasoned them perfectly.”
I breathe through my nose and try not to let my irritation show. But my fingers curl around my fork, and I’m pretty certain my left eye twitches. Under the table, Declan places a warm hand on my knee, a silent tether that keeps me from snapping. I exhale slowly and reach for my wine glass.
Cormac doesn’t seem to notice any tension at all. He’s already moved on to bragging.
“This one,” he says, jerking a thumb at Declan. “He’s brought Halberd more profit in the last quarter than the entire bloody team did last year. The man’s a machine. You should be proud of him.”
“I am,” I say honestly, the tension in my chest loosening. “He’s been working hard.”
Declan grins at me and squeezes my knee again. That small look from him makes the entire day feel worth it.
Almost.
Dessert, unfortunately, is a different story.
I bring out what I can salvage: a bowl of peaches served with scoops of vanilla ice cream. Not the peach cobbler I promised. Not the rich, bubbling, golden-brown masterpiece I’d envisioned. But it’s something.
Cormac doesn’t seem to care.
“Now this hits the spot,” he says, licking his spoon like a child. “Simple, sweet, and cold. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Marge says nothing. She dabs her mouth with her napkin and offers a tight smile.
A few hours later, the house is quiet again. The kids are tucked in—Willow curled up with her stuffed rabbit and Emmett finally asleep after his last bottle—and I’m in our bedroom slipping out of my shoes.
Declan steps closer, unbuttoning his dress shirt.
“Alright, love,” he says gently. “What’s been bothering you all night?”
I pause, hands resting on the dresser. “Nothing.”
“Amerie.”
