Page 49 of Light My Fire Three Times
Ivy beams at me. “Are yousureyou don’t want to join us for Thanksgiving dinner? We’ve got more than enough room, and you know Mitchell can’t cook for shit. But Freddie’s been slaving over that turkey all morning, and you don’t want to miss it.”
I hesitate, the idea of spending another meal with Jesse filling me with dread. Because IknowIvy’s brother will be there. That’s why I’ve refused every time she’s asked.
Yeah, I don’t think I can do it.
“I’m good,” I say. “Thank you, but I just need a day off today. A day to chill.”
Ivy studies me for a moment, then nods slowly, as if she can tell there’s more to my refusal than I’m letting on. She doesn’t push me, though. She gives me a gentle nudge with her elbow.
“Okay, but if you change your mind, you know where we are. The door’s always open. You’re always welcome with us.”
By the time I leave, the morning fog has lifted, but the chill in the air still bites at my skin.
The walk had been refreshing, a good way to start the day and clear my mind, but now, I find myself dreading the return to Karl’s place.
The tension between Leo and me lingers, and it feels like the walls are closing in every time I walk through that door. But it’s Thanksgiving, and I have nowhere else to go. I’ve avoided it long enough—time to face it.
When I finally push open the door, the smell hits me first. Something warm, buttery, and herby. Not frozen pizza or takeout, I’ve come to expect when he’s left to his own devices.
Karl’s in the kitchen, sleeves rolled up, moving between the stove and the counter like he knows what he’s doing. He glances over when I walk in, flashing that lopsided grin that’s far too disarming after the day I’ve had.
“Hey, Liv,” he says, as if I didn’t just storm out earlier to get away from all of this. “Lunch is almost ready. I figured you could use something other than coffee and a granola bar. Especially for Thanksgiving.”
I hover in the doorway, unsure. “You didn’t have to do that.”
“Yeah, I did.” He shrugs, stirring a pan like it’s the most natural thing in the world. “You’ve had a hell of a week. Thought maybe I could give you one night where you don’t have to think too hard.”
Something in my chest softens—just a little.
I slip off my coat and move closer, watching him. He’s not graceful about it. There’s a sauce splatter on the counter, a pot lid teetering on the edge, but there’s care in the way he cooks. Real effort. For me.
“Sit,” Karl says, pointing at the chair like he won’t take no for an answer. “Wine?”
I bite back a laugh. “What are you trying to do, Karl? Romance me with pasta and cheap merlot?”
He smirks, dimples flashing. “Exactly. And hey, this isn’t cheap. It’s… mid-tier. And I know this isn’t the full Thanksgiving shebang, but I’m doing my best.”
Despite myself, I laugh. Really laugh, for the first time all day. “I appreciate it. More than you know.”
When he finally sets the plate in front of me, pasta tossed in a creamy sauce, sprinkled with fresh herbs he must’ve stolen from somewhere, I almost tear up. Because it isn’t about the food, it’s about someone caring enough to make it.
Karl sits across from me, watching carefully but not pressing, like he knows I’m still balancing on a tightrope between holding it together and falling apart.
“Thanks,” I whisper, meeting his eyes.
His grin softens into something gentler. “Anytime, Liv.”
I take a bite to keep from saying something stupid, and my eyes widen. “Wait, this is actually… good. Like, restaurant-quality good. Where did you learn to cook?”
Karl smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Believe it or not, I didn’t always have Leo around to nag me about doing things properly. Some of us bachelors had to survive on more than boxed mac and cheese. I might not be able to do it all, but what I can do, I do well.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Survive? This tastes like thriving. Don’t tell me you’re secretly some five-star chef moonlighting as a local boy.”
“Hardly.” He twirls his fork in the air. “I just like seeing people enjoy something I made. Food’s easy that way. You can tell if it worked or not by the first bite.”
“Well,” I say, pointing my fork at him, “it worked. You get a gold star.”
He chuckles, the sound low and warm. “Guess I’ll have to start a collection. How many gold stars before it earns me… say, a third date?”
