Page 29 of Wild Claim

I smacked his arm with the spoon, splattering a few red droplets on his flannel shirt. “My sauce is perfect, thank you very much. And it was only thatonetime.”

He wiped at the stain half-heartedly. “Once is enough. You had me puking my guts out for two days straight. But sure, let’s roll those dice again.”

The kitchen timer dinged, and Rory moved to pull the pies from the oven. A delicious combination of cinnamon, nutmeg, and cranberries filled the room with a warm and tart fragrance. He set the pies on the windowsill to cool.

I glanced out the window. “Ever miss your flock?”

Rory arched a brow. “Mywhatnow?”

“You know, your brothers. The gobble gang.”

He snorted. “Miss those featherbrains? Not a chance. I’ve got all I need right here.”

“We could always invite them over next year.”

“Hell, no. I like our setup. Just us, no drama. Plus, more leftovers for me.”

“You mean for us, right?”

He winked an eye. “We’ll see about that, sweetheart.”

I sighed, knowing he wasn’t ready to face his family yet. Every year we made enough to feed an army, even though it had just been the two of us. I still held on to the hope that one year his brothers would come over to patch things up between them and we’d have a full table for a fresh change. But until then, it was me and Rory, and that honestly was enough.

“Let’s set the table.” I opened the antique hutch and pulled out the special occasion plates, the ones with the delicate floral patterns that had been my grandmother’s. I carried the dishes from the kitchen to the dining room while Rory balanced bowls of mashed potatoes, candy-coated yams, and green beans.

“Watch it, big guy,” I said. “Those beans seem pretty heavy.”

“These hands could bench press a tractor. A few pounds of green beans won’t break me.” He flexed his fingers, the calluses catching the light.

I laughed and headed back to grab the cranberry sauce. When I returned, Rory was fussing with the candles like they’d offended him. “You know, if you glare at those any harder, they might burst into flame on their own.”

He grunted, but I caught the hint of a smile.

I set down the sauce and reached for the brown sugar glazed ham. Rory beat me to it, lifting the platter. He set it down in the center of the table, carefully adjusting it so the light from the candles caught the glaze just right. I smiled to myself. The gruff man could pretend all he wanted, but there was a tenderness to Rory that even he couldn’t hide.

“Perfect,” I said, running my fingers along the edge of my grandmother’s tablecloth. The embroidered roses looked as vibrant as ever, despite their many years of service. “It’s like magic.”

Rory stepped back, surveying our handiwork. “You don’t think its overkill?”

“Oh, hush.” I walked over and straightened one napkin he’d placed slightly askew. He arched a brow at my fussing but didn’t protest. “Besides, it’s not overkill. It’s tradition.”

“Tradition is eating ham and pretending we’re not both avoiding talking about Gladys’ batshit pie.”

I laughed, the sound bubbling up freely now that everything was ready. “So, are we all set?”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Everything looks good. Smells better.”

I stepped closer, brushing my fingers lightly over his arm. “You meanwelook good?”

He bent down to kiss me. “Yeah... that too.”

Later, after dinner was long gone, the dishes washed and stacked neatly in the drying rack, our bellies full and warm. I let the warmth of the evening settle into my bones. This was home. Not just the farmhouse or the creaky old chairs or the flicker of candlelight on wine glasses. Rory, gruff edges and all, was home.

After dinner, we stepped out onto the porch. Rory’s weight tilted his head back to gaze at the starry sky.

The cold bit at my cheeks, but it was pleasant. I hugged my sweater tighter around myself and leaned against the railing, watching him. He looked... peaceful, almost. Still gruff, still holding the tension in his shoulders that never quite faded, but there was a gentler quality in the way he looked at me tonight.

“I think I overdid it on those yams,” he said finally, breaking the quiet. His voice rumbled low in his chest, carrying that delicious, gravelly edge that always did things to me.

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