Page 49 of Falling Back to You

And with a ray of sunshine like Khia, I didn’t doubt it.

“No, I’m her helper!” another little girl argued with a pout.

“You’re both excellent helpers,” Mama D said firmly. “Now wash up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” The girls scurried away.

Mama D’s arm hadn’t left its spot around my waist, and she was leaning on me more heavily. I doubted she even realized it.

“What happened to your foot?” I asked in a lowered tone, scanning her.

She waved off my concern. “A fractured ankle. It’s been three weeks already, and I’m feeling marvelous.”

When I scoffed, she chuckled, adding in a conspiratorial whisper, “All right, between you and me, marvelous might be a stretch.”

“No weight-bearing for six weeks at least,” I scolded, though it was pointless. Mama D never could be tied down, but I had to try. “Or you might make it worse. C’mon. Let’s get it propped up.”

She sighed. “All y’all conspire against me.”

Pops chuckled, overhearing our exchange, and he gave his wife a quick kiss. “Because we care, my love.”

My heart puddled on the floor. I loved how much they loved each other.

Mama D hobbled over to the table using Pops and me for balance, and I plumped up the pillows on the spare chair for her to prop her leg off to the side.

“Thanks, honey.” Mama D patted her husband’s whiskered cheek and beamed at me.

I smiled back. A real smile. It was nice, feeling needed again.

Through some random chance, I was seated next to Cal at the table. Random chance, my foot. This reeked of scheming.

Once we were all gathered around the table with steaming plates of divinely smelling food, Pops asked the blessing—which involved holding hands.

Paisley, Greyson’s wife, sat to my left, and then there was Cal. His hand was warm in mine, the calluses rough against my skin. I tried to focus, but his thumb brushed over my knuckles. One time I could ignore, but three times? Get a grip, girl. Hand-holding wasn’t scandalous.

After the resounding “amen,” Cal gave my hand a squeeze, lingering a heartbeat longer than necessary.

Do. Not. Melt. I couldn’t—wouldn’t—look at him. One peek at those baby blues and I’d be softer than the pooling butter on my mashed potatoes. We were friends.

Digging into my fried chicken, green beans, and mashed potatoes, I slipped into an observation role, watching everyone. And, okay, fine, mostly Cal—my eyes were rogue agents. The way he interacted with his daughter and his other nieces and nephews had my Grinch heart swelling three sizes.

One thing I’d forgotten about Satterfield dinners was how noisy they were, although it might have to do with the number of extra faces that had popped up. But for all the noise, there was so much love. Inside jokes and “please pass the pickles.” Work talk and “great save last night.”

It was like coming in from a cold night and holding your hands up to the fire—warmth seeped into your bones and thawed your chilled heart from the inside out.

No performance. No censure. Just warmth and welcome. Like you mattered.

This was what I’d missed in New York. I had made friends and found a community, but it hadn’t lasted when it mattered most. But here? After all this time and all the mistakes, somehow they still believed I belonged.

After dinner, the guys kicked everyone out of the kitchen so they could wash up. Mama D’s rules—the cooks didn’t clean.

Melissa tapped my arm as I watched Cal sling a dish towel over his shoulder. Was there anything more attractive than a man doing housework competently? “You might want to wipe that drool.” She mimed wiping the corner of her mouth with her thumb.

“I’m . . . that’s not—” I blew out a flustered breath, cheeks heating.

“Uh-huh.” Melissa smiled knowingly. “When it comes to Satterfield men, it’s best if you lock them down, girly pop.” She winked at me. “I’m rooting for you.”

Butterflies fluttered in my stomach.