Page 158 of Deliverance

“Paper,” Justice corrects his daughter. “Say pa-per.”

Drew shoots me an over-the-shoulder glance, and I catch a flicker of amusement in her eyes, then dip my hand beneath the table and rest it on her thigh, needing to touch her. Even if it’s just for a brief moment.

I can’t explain it. This itch. This strange desire to keep her close. To keep her safe. To keep her happy.

“Zander?” Hazel clears her throat.

I shift my attention to Mrs. Cross, who looks positively exhausted after slaving in that kitchen for hours.

“How’s the chicken?” she smiles coyly, her gaze cutting to my hand settled on Drew’s leg.

“Oh, it’s delicious.” I nod.

“He’s volunteering to help with the dishes.” Drew smirks.

Cruz lets out a strangled sound and Wendy slaps the back of his head. Their youngest giggles.

“I like vegetables,” he announces, sending a sizable piece of potato into his mouth.

“That’s great, big guy.” Justice nods and tries to seize what’s left of his own potato from his daughter’s grasp.

She whimpers and shakes her fists.

“Okay, okay.” He brushes her fluffy golden curls with his knuckles. “Have your fill, monkey.”

Just to prove the point that she’s the boss here, Faith tosses the food across the table and cackles. Rocky and Jazzy give her a round of applause.

Aiden shrieks.

Sighing, Hazel gets to her feet and takes the little girl from her husband. “That’s enough, Princess.”

Princess isn’t having it, though. Her face droops, her eyes brimming with unshed tears.

“Let’s go play a game, huh?” Drew offers and scoots back her chair a little, ready to leave the table as well. Her palm, warm and pleasant, gives me a quick squeeze before I withdraw my hand from her thigh.

Seconds later, the women, including Wendy, have gone back into the living room to entertain the youngest Cross family member.

“There’s cake,” Aiden whispers.

“That’s for later, buddy,” Justice explains, wiping the pieces of crushed potatoes from the table.

“Can we play the game too? Jazzy asks, probably meaning something entirely different.

“Sure,” Cruz agrees.

They all leave one by one, and eventually, it’s Justice and me at the table with mountains of neatly arranged food and a pitcher of non-alcoholic punch.

“Thank you for coming over, man,” he says quietly, something a lot like satisfaction settling onto his features.

“Yeah, of course.” I shrug. “Your wife is a great cook, by the way.”

“She is.” A mischievous smile spreads across his lips, then he tips his chin toward the door and pushes up from his chair. “I got something you’ll enjoy.”

“Okay.” I follow him out and down the hallway into the study, where he sinks into a crouch in front of a tall file cabinet and pulls out a bottle of Remy Martin from the bottom drawer.

“Shit.” Shaking my head, I take the cognac and study the label. “This is good stuff.”

“Cost me an arm and a leg.” Justice rises back to his feet and strolls over to the china cabinet to grab two glasses. “I had it shipped from Europe.”

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