Page 136 of Stuck with my Mountain Daddies

Inside the cabin, the smell of roasted meat, garlic, and something sweet and cinnamon flooded my nostrils, causing my stomach to growl.

“Someone went all out,” Lucy said, whistling. “Asher?”

“Obviously,” Beckett muttered from where he leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, expression dark as always. “He won’t let anyone else touch the turkey. It’s a ‘sacred ritual.’”

“That’s because none of you barbarians understand the concept of basting,” Asher called from the kitchen, flipping something in a cast iron skillet with flair and zero fear of splatter.

“You baste like it’s foreplay,” Beckett grunted.

“That’s because itis, Beckett,” Asher shot back. “You’ve clearly never seduced a turkey properly.”

Garrett walked in behind us, slamming the door shut with his boot. “We’re not having this conversation again. Every year, you two get weirder.”

“It’s not weird,” Asher said. “It’s culinary art.”

“You talk to the meat,” Garrett replied, leveling him with a flat stare. “Out loud.”

“You’re jealous because I’m the sexy brotherandthe one who can cook.”

“That’s debatable,” Lucy said, pulling off her coat. “Garrett’s got that brooding lumberjack thing going. It’s unfair to the rest of you, really.”

Beckett snorted and muttered something under his breath, but I caught the flicker of a smile before he shoved it down again.

I took it all in quietly, the swirl of voices, the teasing, the warmth of real family dynamics. Something I wasn’t used to. It was lovely.

I perched on the edge of the couch while Lucy helped Asher plate the food, pretending I wasn’t hyperaware of every glance that found me across the room.

From Garrett, who moved with quiet command, every flick of his eyes like a touch on my skin.

From Asher, who didn’t stop moving but stole looks as if he was cataloging every shift in my breathing.

From Beckett, whose gaze lingered the longest, like he already knew the answer to a question I hadn’t asked yet.

Garrett passed me a plate, and when our fingers brushed, something slow and electric moved between us. His hand didn’t linger. But his eyes did.

“You good?” he murmured, low and steady.

He was asking me about the baby, but of course, we couldn’t be too vocal yet. I nodded, though the weight in my chest felt anything but steady.

“Yeah. Just taking it all in.”

His loaded gaze held mine, and then Beckett’s voice cut through the moment.

“Careful,” he said, dry and quiet from his place by the window. “She’s got that look again.”

“What look?” I asked, startled.

“The one where she disappears a little,” Beckett said, not looking away. “And we don’t like that.”

My stomach fluttered. Not just from what he’d said, but how he’d said it. Like he had a claim. As if they all did.

Asher swept in with a tray of vegetables, his apron slightly askew. “Ignore him. He gets poetic when he’s anxious. Or hungry.”

“Starving,” Beckett muttered, still watching me.

Asher winked at me. “We’ll fix that.”

Luckily, Lucy wasn’t paying any attention, or she would have seen right through us. She was too busy being chaotic in the best way possible, getting us ready to eat.

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