Page 89 of Ruthless Dream

“Oh, yeah, no, that shit’s on fire,” Nat says a week later.

“Everyone out!” Mom shouts. “Out!” she orders when we don’t move.

“I’m not the one who burned the turkey,” Nat mutters as we shuffle out of the kitchen.

“Ads, your boyfriend is here!” Lennie yells from the front foyer. I’m so proud of her because she’s speaking to Ciaran all by herself, even if I don’t like what she’s saying. “Yeah, we probably won’t have any food for a while because Nat and Adeline tried to be helpful in the kitchen.”

Ciaran chuckles, the dark rumble making my skin flush as I run around the corner, nearly knocking into him.

Lennie scuttles off quickly when I wrap my hands around Ciaran, squeezing tight.

“You’re here.”

He holds me close. “You sound surprised.”

“I mean I wouldn’t blame you if you chickened out.”

“Do you think I would’ve chickened out?” he asks, pulling back.

Right. He’s just gotten an invitation to spend Thanksgiving with my dad. Talk about the ultimate opportunity to rub elbows.

“You look really nice.” He’s wearing a sweater, and God, what is wrong with me that it’s somehow hot to see him in knitwear. “I told you to wear some sweats.”

He chuckles again, kissing my forehead. My fingers wrap into his sweater when someone clears their throat.

Dad is in the doorway. He’s also wearing a sweater but he has never looked so old and exhausted before. He leans against the doorframe, arms crossed, a glass of vodka in one hand.

Basically, he’s not going anywhere.

“Thank you for having me,” Ciaran says, holding out a hand.

Dad eyes it before begrudgingly shaking hands. “Adeline, your mother is asking for you.”

“She just kicked me out of the kitchen.”

“Go to your mother.”

“So you can interrogate my boyfriend?”

“Adeline.”

Ciaran runs a hand down my arm, telling me it’s okay. Dad’s jaw spasms, not a fan of the G-rated affection.

I pad down the hall, acting like I’m going to go to the kitchen. I double right back around when Dad shows Ciaran into his office.

It’s the one place us kids never went. Even my mom avoids it, but that’s also because they once argued about how he’d decorate. She lost, and to this day, his sense of interior design bothers her.

He leaves the door open, which means he wants me to listen in. Or so I tell myself as I creep closer.

“Ciaran O’Connell,” Dad says, and I bite down a wave of secondhand embarrassment. I know Dad does bad things sometimes, but this is so tacky, this little fatherly chat. “It’s an honor to have you in my home.”

“The honor is mine,” his dark voice replies, sounding every bit as confident as he normally does. “Thank you for having me.”

“You can thank my wife.”

Oh, jeez.

“You’ve taken care of my daughter the past few weeks.”