When I glance over, Corbin is already looking at me, something like contentment flickering behind his blue eyes. Then, without a word, he reaches for my hand, threading his fingers through mine. His grip is firm, solid, grounding.
And yet, despite everything, doubt lingers.
Are we giving Tate false hope? Am I giving myself false hope?
Corbin squeezes my hand lightly, as if sensing my hesitation. Maybe that’s the problem. He always knows when I’m hesitating, but he never asks why.
“So,” Corbin says casually, “Thanksgiving.”
I arch a brow, caught off guard by the subject. “Thanksgiving,” I repeat, waiting for him to continue.
“My mom is still coming up next week,” he says, rubbing his thumb absently along my knuckles. “But I booked her a nice suite at the hotel down the street.”
I frown. “Why would you do that when you have a perfectly good guest room?”
He exhales slowly, like he knew I’d ask. “You know why, Jules.”
Realization dawns, and I smirk. “Oh. You don’t want your mom to know I’m… basting your turkey.”
Even in the dim light of the car, I catch the way Corbin’s ears go red. He lets out a sharp laugh, shaking his head. “Julianne.”
Ah, full name. I struck gold.
I grin, tightening my grip on his hand as he bites his lower lip, like he’s trying not to laugh. “I’m right, aren’t I?”
“That’s part of it,” he admits, glancing over at me before refocusing on the road. “But also, I want this to feel like your space. It was, once. And I don’t want you to feel like you have to be anything you’re not.”
My heart skitters, my throat tightening unexpectedly. This version of Corbin—the man who pays attention, who wants me to feel comfortable—is both unfamiliar and painfully familiar. He’s always been thoughtful, but never like this. Never in a way that made me feel so… seen.
“I’ll make the side dishes if you make the turkey,” I say, my voice barely above a whisper.
He exhales, visibly relieved. “I was terrified I’d have to make the stuffing.”
Tate and I both laugh, breaking the tension.
“I’ll make the stuffing,” I reassure him.
“And I’ll make the turkey,” he agrees, pulling into the parking lot of Cardini’s, our favorite pizza joint. This time, as a family.
The moment Tate hops out of the car, he practically vibrates with excitement. I still don’t understand why he’s so giddy, but as soon as he races inside, the pieces start falling into place.
The second he spots Kona, the owner, Tate grins and shouts, “Mom and Dad are together! And we’re going to spend Thanksgiving together!”
I freeze. Oh.Oh.That’s why.
Kona raises an eyebrow, looking between Corbin and me, his gaze landing on our still-intertwined hands. A knowing smirk tugs at the corner of his lips.
“Well,” he drawls, “let’s get you guys the best seat in the house.”
Corbin’s fingers release mine, but only so his hand can find the small of my back as we follow behind Tate. His lips graze my ear, his breath warm against my skin.
“We should probably talk to him when we get home,” he murmurs.
I nod, my stomach tightening. He’s right. We should have told him.
But I can’t shake the feeling that I’m the one who keeps needing to be told something.
Corbin looks down at me. “Does this make you my girlfriend?” he teases, clearly trying to lighten the mood.
