The Broody Brit for Christmas (Holiday Springs #1) - M.J. Fields Page 0,85
walks toward me with caution.
“Don’t do that,” I whisper.
“Do what?” he asks, setting the bag on the Island.
“Act like you have to tiptoe around me.” I shrug. “I love you.”
“I know that.” He smiles gently as he grips the back of my head and pulls it close so he can kiss the top. “And I love you deeper than I think you know.”
Smiling, I push at his chest. “I’m aware how deep your love goes.”
His chest vibrates in a silent chuckle, and he steps back, bringing his hand in front of him. “For you.”
I take the flowers and hold them under my nose. “I think I was jealous when you gave these to Grams.”
“Well, then, I can promise you, Nikki Winterfield. If I ever buy flowers for another woman, for any occasion, you’ll get them, too.”
I set the flowers on the island and wrap my arms around his hard body. “What did I ever do to deserve you?”
He squeezes me tight and sighs, “I ask myself that same question every day.”
Then he pinches me lightly, and I laugh.
“We still in love?” he asks.
“Gonna go with yes.”
“Thank God.”
“Can we eat now?” Nathaniel says, causing me to jump.
“Did you even shower?” Raff scratches the back of his neck.
“Yes, a quick one, and I’m starved.”
Sitting around the table with them, my family, I am so at peace. It’s quickly become my favorite part of the day.
“Can you pass the garlic bread?” Nathaniel brings the large glass of milk to his lips as I pull apart the loaf, handing him another buttery roll. “Sooooooo good,” he grumbles, putting down the glass and taking a giant bite.
I’m not a fancy chef, but I know the food I make tastes good. The boys inhale my spaghetti and creamy meat sauce, and not for the first time I’m relieved Raff plated my food before they started eating.
I’ve tried the “just make more” tactic, but regardless of how much I make, they finish it.
“This is my favorite dish.” Raff smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He uses some crust from the bread to clean up the chunky sauce in his bowl.
“Oh,” Nathaniel chimes in. “For me, it’s between this, the sticky honey ribs, and the cheese lasagna.” He takes another big bite.
“Raff, do we have wine for tonight?” Over the last few weeks, we’ve been doing wine tasting every Monday and Friday. We use the excuse that it’s for the bar, but it’s become something fun between us, a date of sorts, without leaving our home.
“Yeah, I picked up something for us earlier.” He stands up, walks across the room, and opens the refrigerator, taking out a bottle before taking the opener from the drawer.
He grabs two wine glasses before heading back to the table and sitting down. “Whispering Angel.”
“Festive.”
“Troubled Turkey would be more holiday-appropriate.” Nathaniel laughs at his own joke.
“Good one.” I smile at him, and he gives me a high-five.
Raff opens the bottle expertly before pouring it for me. I take a sip and hum. “I think this is the best one yet. I bet our Thanksgiving guests will love it, too.”
He takes a sip. “I agree.” He looks down, his phone buzzing, and answers it. “Hello. Uh, huh? Sure.” He stands, putting his napkin on the table, annoyance evident as he stands. He gives me a quick kiss on top of the head. “I need to deal with this.”
“Of course.”
“Bet it’s Steakhouse on Main. That’s like his problem child.” Nate shakes his head.
“Always giving me trouble.” Raff squeezes his shoulder before walking out.
“No problem. I’ll, um, leave our wine glasses in the frig for when you get back?” My voice comes out more like a question than a comment.
He stops and looks back at me. “Sure.” Then he looks at Nate. “Be good, and don’t forget to finish your homework.”
“Got it, Dad.”
He grabs his coat, puts on his shoes by the door, and heads out, leaving Nathaniel and me alone for the first time in days.
“So, dessert?” I take another sip of wine and set it down. “Cookies?”
“Definitely.”
I put two on his plate and refill his glass of milk.
He takes a bite, and some chocolate smears on his cheek. “You look like her.”
“Look like who?” I stand up, head to the kitchen, wet a paper napkin in the sink, and then bring it back and hand it to him before pointing to the chocolate spot.
He wipes his cheek. “My mom. You’ve got the same hair color. I guess my dad has a type, huh?”