Page 96 of The Thought of You

He winks, and tiny supernovas explode in my chest.

Keeping him a secret might be the hardest thing I’ll ever have to do.

chapter

thirty

OWEN

“This patient suffered from a left temporal hemorrhage and started speaking with an accent. It’s called Foreign Accent Syndrome,” Laurel says as she sets the bowl of salad in the middle of my dining table.

“That’s what happens to me after three tequila shots.” Whitney snorts as she shifts Huck onto her shoulder and pats his back to burp him.

“French, right?” I ask Whit as I set silverware on either side of every placemat.

“How did you know?”

“You used it on me a few years ago, although you were too young to drink then, which makes me wonder…” I narrow my eyes.

But she shrugs, humming along to her own rhythm.

“Why do I bother? You guys don’t get it.” Laurel huffs as she stalks back into the kitchen to help Mom with more dishes.

“Relax,” Whit calls out. “It’s family dinner. We’re just trying to have some fun.”

The front door shuts, and Lottie whisks into the dining room. “What did I miss? I saw Laurel’s car outside. Is she already into it with y’all for not listening on the edge of your seats to her riveting tales of medical crises?”

“How did you know?” Whit’s eyes widen in awe.

“We spend too much time together, don’t we?” I muse.

“Nah.” Lottie waves with her free hand, a covered dish in the other. “It’s just that Laurel’s too predictable.”

“You say it like it’s an insult,” my third sister returns with a platter of stuffed mushrooms and a basket of breadsticks.

“It’s not a compliment,” Lottie teases. “I’m surprised you’re even helping set the table. Isn’t that beneath you, Doctor Conrad?”

“As the oldest daughter, it’s my responsibility to help.” Laurel raises her chin with pride.

“You’re older than me by a minute!” Lottie bursts.

Huck burps, pulling all of our attention toward him as if he just knew he needed to break the impending explosion.

Even from this young of an age, it’s clear the kid possesses a talent for being the funny guy, just like his favorite uncle.

I’m the first to chuckle, and the rest of the girls follow suit.

“It’s great to finally hear you all laughing.” Mom rushes into the dining room, an apron tied around her waist and oven mitts over both hands. In her grasp is the world’s greatest smelling lasagna.

The cheese still bubbles on the top—she obviously just pulled it from the oven.

I inhale another hungry whiff, and as I finish setting out the napkins and silverware, the doorbell rings.

“That’s probably your father,” Mom says and pats my shoulder. “He said he’d be running a little behind.”

“He never rings the doorbell, though.” I leave a question hanging in the air, but all I get in response are a bunch of shrugs.

Lottie does nothing but swipe a stuffed mushroom, and Laurel slaps her hand. She really takes her role as a-whole-minute-older sister so seriously.

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