Page 86 of Four Weekends and a Funeral

Adam groans. “June—”

“Hallie sounds like a blast,” I interrupt. “And now I know to keep an eye out for the moms carrying opaque venti Starbucks cups if I’m looking for a good time.”

June’s mouth turns up in the corners, and she sends Adam a secret sibling look I can’t decode.

“But the Sky Zone Jiffy Pop part was true, though. Arabella is super judgmental for a six-year-old.”

“You have to stop vaping, June,” Adam scolds. It’s as though they have this back-and-forth every time he comes by. Just another sister-brother dance they do. It makes me a little homesick.

She tosses her head. “I know, Dad.” She turns toward me, a potential sympathizer. “It’s a holdover from art school. Smoking behind the ceramic studio became vaping on the back porch. I managed to quit for a while, but then—”

“Pikachu!” Otis screams.

“Inside voice!” June, Adam, and a man’s voice I can’t place yet parry in unison.

“It’s a Pikachu balloon!” he cries out again, undeterred.

“Looks like the parade started.” June’s eyes go wide. “I need to wrangle my animal. Alison, make yourself at home. Adam, can you set the table?” She marches out of the kitchen, sipping from her mug.

I head for the cupboard, but Adam grabs me by the belt loop and tugs my back into his chest. The thrill of his semipublic manhandling zips up my spine.

His mouth tangles in my hair. “I heard my sister order you to make yourself at home.”

“At home, I set the table.”

He twists me to face him. “Not in the Berg house. You’re a guest. Pretend you’re relaxing at your apartment right now.”

I tilt my head to get a better look at that chin dimple. I can’t get enough of it. “There’s entirely too much space here for me to pretend I’m at home.”

“What about home home? What are the Mullallys doing on Thanksgiving?” he asks, lacing our fingers together.

“Emma’s probably with her wife’s family. My mom gave us all food poisoning from an undercooked turkey twenty years ago, so she usually makes a Stouffer’s lasagna while my dad holes up in the den and murmurs at the Lions in distress.”

“Can’t help with the lasagna, but I’m pretty sure Dev is watching football on his phone in the other room. Might even catch a frustrated murmur or two.”

I play with his fingers, relishing the feeling of being the first woman Adam Berg has brought home to his family.

“Don’t send me away.” I push out my bottom lip. “I’d rather see what trouble you get up to in here.”

The look in his eyes is searing.

We’re interrupted by a South Asian man with brown hair, clear plastic glasses, and a strong resemblance to Adam’s nephew. He strides into the kitchen with a giggling Otis over his shoulder. “Don’t mind us. Just checking on my bird.” He plops his son on the floor next to him and squats in front of the lit oven window. “Should only be another hour. Maybe two. I’m Dev, by the way. You must be Alison.”

Adam tilts his head toward his brother-in-law. “Dev’s in charge of the turkey, and you should probably add three hours to his meal ETA.”

He squints at the glistening bird resting primly in the roast pan. “Not this year. I’ve been watching Barefoot Contessa all week. I’ve got this down to an exact science.”

“I’m starved,” Otis whines.

Adam grabs a carrot off the platter behind him. “Here.”

He winces. “I’m not starved for that.”

“Then you’re not starving, are you?”

Otis pokes his uncle when a new thought occurs to him. “I added blankets this morning. Can you go look at it?”

Adam tilts his head toward the dining room. “Your mom put me to work, but you can show Alison your improvements. I’ll find you guys when I’m done.”

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