Page 36 of Reclaimed

The grin she sends my way is more than a little heated.

“I’m glad you’re finding the positives in this situation.”

She swallows down a bite. “I am now that I’m no longer starving. I’m not liable for my hangry attitude.”

I flip the baseball cap around on my head. Isla pauses with a forkful halfway to her mouth as she watches my hands.

“Noted.” I wink.

She shoves in a flustered bite.

“I have something I’d like to run by you.” I settle into the opposite side of the couch and rest my arm across the back. “We’ve laid low this week, and I’m not complaining. For the first time in months, I had some peace and quiet. But I was thinking it might be time to make this public.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“My family does this weekly dinner on Sundays. It’s sort of a tradition. Once my siblings started to grow up and move out, one by one, they’d stop in on Sundays until it just became the thing we all did together. Anyway, I’ve been avoiding them for the last couple of months.”

“And you want us to go together,” she surmises.

“Yes.” I twist the hat around and back again. “We don’t have to stay very long, but it would get it over with all at once so long as everybody shows up. All the spouses and kids come. Juniper will be there, so that’s one less person to tell.”

Isla rolls her lips between her teeth and scrunches her nose. “I haven’t told her yet.”

“We tell them all together then.”

“She’s going to hate me.”

“I don’t see how that’s possible.”

Isla suddenly hops up from the couch and marches her dirty dishes into the kitchen. She raises her voice above the sound of running water. “I’ve been keeping a lot from her lately. It’s not that I want to keep secrets, but I’m trying to keep her from seeing how much of an absolute mess I am.”

Her cute rant has me frozen in place on the couch. Maybe that’s the key to getting her to open up. Keeping my own mouth shut.

Before I can get a word in, she announces, “I’ll be right back,” and walks down the hall.

Chevy turns a glare on me, then butts his head against my arm.

“Sour patch,” I mutter, scratching him beneath his chin. “You’re rubbing off on her. Or maybe she’s rubbing off on you.”

Digging my phone from my back pocket, I scroll to the family group text and type out a message.

Me:

Dinner on Sunday?

Frankie:

You’ll be there?

Jude:

It’s on. Usual time

Me:

Yeah, I’ll be there and heads up I’m bringing someone

Cortney:

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