Page 12 of Bingeworthy
I move my toes from Rocco’s leg and go back to picking at my sweet potatoes. A moment later, something warm rests over my foot. And it’s not the dog.
I glance up. Rocco is innocently eating his dinner, complimenting my parents on the food, and making small talk with Uncle Ricky.
It takes a few more minutes of me reeling, sitting here with his foot on my foot, for him to look at me. The slightly arched eyebrow, the twinkle in his eye. The damn charming-as-hell crow’s feet.
I’m done for.
After dinner, everyone helps clean up.
At some point, Rocco and I end up at the sink together, with me washing, him rinsing.
“We do flag football after this, but I’m going to need a nap,” I say.
Rocco grunts in agreement. “I don’t think I could walk ten feet, let alone throw a football.”
“I know the feeling,” I laugh, handing him the silver turkey platter. “However, if I don’t get some exercise, I won’t have room for pumpkin pie later.”
“God, I can’t even think about pumpkin pie,” he says.
“I’ll save you some. If you decide to step away and do your own thing,” I say, giving him an out.
“I’ve already been told by Lucille that I’m invited to all the festivities today. After flag football, it’s dessert around the fire pit, then the bean bag tournament,” he says.
I shake my head. “I know, my family is exhausting.”
“They’re not exhausting. It’s just not something I’m used to.”
“What kind of traditions did your family do as a kid?” I ask.
He answers, “My mom would get drunk and my dad would disappear. But that was an average Thursday.”
I wince. “I keep bringing up painful things. Please tell me to shut up and go away.”
“Never,” he murmurs. “I’ll never say that to you, Tiffany.”
Flustered, hot, and emotional, I busy myself with draining the sink and refilling it with clean, soapy water.
“Okay, you two!” I jump at the sound of my dad coming up behind us.
“What? I wasn’t doing anything!”
My dad narrows his eyes at me. “I meant your shift is up and your mom and I are coming to relieve you.”
Drying my hands on the towel, I say, “Oh, I know. Thanks.”
My dad peers at me. “Flag football in fifteen minutes,” he says.
“I think I’m going to pass on that this year and go for a walk down to the beach,” I say.
“Are you crazy? It’s freezing and windy,” says Jill, overhearing me as she sweeps under the dining room table.
“I’ll go to the woods, then!” I say, too irritably.
“Flag football might be fun,” Rocco interjects. “Come on, Tiffany.”
My name on his lips causes all sorts of reactions in my body that would be interesting to explore if I weren’t in the same room as my dad and my sister.
I turn to find the man’s eyes full of expectation.
