Page 42 of Never Let You Go

Grace’s gaze darts between Christopher and me, a smile dancing in her eyes.

“I don’t know about that,” I say. “It never works that way.”

eleven

Christopher

"It never works that way.” Why is she so jaded? I’ve had my share of shit, but I’m a fighter. I don’t let go until I have what I want. Although, right now I want her hand back inside mine, but I have to let it go.

For now.

“Ready for galette?” I ask, looking at our empty plates.

Skye shrieks in excitement. We quickly clear the table and set it for dessert. “Alexandra, are you familiar with Galette des Rois?”

“Skye told me about the bean and the crown,” she answers. “Sounds exciting!”

I clear my throat. That wasn’t the answer I was looking for. She really has no clue about baking. I need to remember that. “It’s a pâte feuilletée filled with frangipane.”

“Amazing,” she says, a small smile on her beautiful face. She still clearly has no idea what I’m talking about.

“Puff pastry filled with almond paste,” I add.

Her eyes widen. “Definitely amazing.”

Skye sets the galette and a clean dishcloth on the table, then crawls underneath the table. “It’s part of the tradition,” I say to Alexandra.

Skye giggles. “Daddy! Your feet stink.”

“They do not.”

“Do to!”

“Oh my god, it smells heavenly!” Alexandra says. “I can’t wait.”

Grace laughs out loud.

“You hear that, little bug? My feet smell heavenly.”

Alexandra turns a bright shade of red. “I mean the galette.” She grabs her phone, swipes off a bunch of new notifications, and snaps a few photos of the untouched galette. She’s beaming, and my stomach does a funny little thing.

I slice the galette, then cover it with the dishcloth. “Alexandra. Do the honors,” I say, handing her the pie server, and for some strange reason, that turns me on. “Just be sure to keep the galette covered, so there’s no cheating.”

She sets her phone down, slides the server under the cloth and loads a random slice of galette. I call out the ritual question, “Who is this one for?”

“Aunt Grace!” The answer comes from underneath the table.

Alexandra serves Grace, then, sliding the server under the dishcloth, loads the second slice.

“Who is this one for?” I ask.

“Ummm. Daddy!” Skye says, and Alexandra serves me, then loads the third slice.

“Who is this one for?”

“Alek—zandra,” Skye calls out.

As Alexandra is ready to put the slice on her plate, she freezes, her eyes zooming in on the fava bean at the edge of the slice, and makes a face. Her eyes dart between me and the tablecloth. I get her idea and lift the cloth while she swiftly switches slices. It’s such a treat, for a child, to get the bean.

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