Page 45 of Seen Knot Heard

Quinn considers the information, far too serious for her tender years. “After she’s better, I want to see her and hug her, but I want to come home with you. Is that okay?”

“Of course it is.” A lump forms in my throat. “I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

She flings her arms around my neck. “I love you, Uncle Blake.”

I enfold her tiny frame in a fierce embrace, her sweet scent enveloping me. “Love you, too, princess. So much.”

As I hold Quinn close, though, a nagging thought worms its way through my mind. Dad should have been back from his business trip by now, but he hasn’t returned my calls.

An uneasy knot forms in my gut. Has he discovered yet how I went behind his back to gain custody of Quinn? My biggest fear is that this will lead to a court battle, with Quinn caught in the middle.

Desperate for a distraction, I give Quinn one last squeeze before pulling back with a grin I don’t quite feel. “Come on, now, these pinecones aren’t going to carry themselves home.”

Her answering smile is as bright as sunshine as she takes one handle on the basket, and I take the other. The height difference makes walking awkward, but it’s worth it as she struts back toward the Homestead, like we’ve found treasure, and we’re bringing it home.

The aroma of herbs, roasted chicken, and something spicy greets us as we step inside, and my stomach rumbles with hunger. Holden must be back and whipping up something for lunch. The man was born to nurture through food.

“Uncle Holden’s baking treats!” Quinn drops her side of the basket to dart toward the kitchen with the energy only a six-year-old can possess.

Chuckling, I follow at a more sedate pace, only to pause in surprise once we’re through the door.

Dominic stands at the stove, muttering under his breath as he leans over an enormous copper stockpot, stirring it with more force than necessary.

His raven hair has started to unravel from its braid, waving tendrils framing a face set in concentration. His sleeves are rolled up to reveal toned forearms, and Band-Aids wrap around two of his fingers. A sharp scent of citrus cuts through the savory notes, announcing his agitation.

The remains of the chicken carcass from last night sit on the island, along with castoffs of vegetables he must have chopped up. A bag of flour sits off to the side, and the top of the butter dish rests on its side, the plate empty except for a pale-yellow smear.

“Uncle Dom?” Quinn’s brow furrows. “What are you doing in the kitchen?”

I want to know the same. Since when does Dominic cook?

He startles at the question and peers over his shoulder, his cheeks flushed and dampened by the steam rising out of the stockpot.

At our arrival, his shoulders relax. “Oh good, you’re back. I promised to make chicken noodle soup, but… Holden makes this seem so easy. Would it kill him to keep cans of pre-made stuff on hand? Not everyone is a professional chef.”

Holden’s not technically a professional chef, either, with his degree in business marketing and a minor in computer science, but he has the Midas touch of the culinary world, which is why he cooks all of our meals.

I gasp in mock-shock. “Bite your tongue before he hears you blaspheming in his kitchen.”

Quinn tugs on my pant leg. “What’sblass phony?”

“Yeah, Uncle Blake.” Dominic raises one black eyebrow. “What’sblass phony?”

“It’s what Uncle Dominic is concocting on the stove.” I glance around. “Where is Holden? I thought he’d be in here stress baking.”

Something flickers across Dominic’s face, too fast to catch, and he turns back to his concoction. “He’s helping Chloe take a bath.”

My world tilts. How did I not scent her as soon as we stepped inside? “She’s here?”

As soon as the question leaves my lips, I want to smack my forehead. Of course, Chloe’s here if Dominic is back home.

I turn for the door. “Is she in her old room?”

“Don’t go rushing in there.” Dominic’s warning brings me back around. “Holden’s taking care of her.”

What does he mean by taking care of her? Is she hurt? Or are they…? My mind flashes pictures of creamy skin turning pink and breathy sighs. Would Holden be that bold?

Quinn, not understanding what the adults are talking about, bounces on her toes, eagerness radiating from every pore. “Can I help? I’m going to be a chef like Uncle Holden.”

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