14
THANKSGIVING AT LUKA’S house is a perfect type of chaos. We let ourselves in the front door to a chorus of shrieking and laughter from the kitchen, armed with enough bottles of red wine to take down a small militia. I have one in each of my hands and another tucked under my arm, a fourth in my bag next to the flask of whiskey Luka snuck in just before we left. Luka is laden with bouquets for his mom, grandmother, and each of his aunts, a veritable walking greenhouse. He pauses in the hallway, Italian and English and David Bowie drifting in from the kitchen. I hear his aunt Gianna yell something about stuffing without oysters, and Luka winces.
“I’m having some second thoughts,” he mutters just as all the women begin to cackle, his mom yelling something in Italian. Luka’s ears turn bright red. “Quick, I think we can turn around before anyone notices us.”
I go to rub his shoulder with my hand, but I’m still holding the bottle of wine. I tap it against him in what I hope is a comforting gesture. He frowns down at me. “It’ll be fine. This isn’t the first time I’ve been around your family.”
But it is the first time I’ve been around them when they think I’m dating Luka. Whatever goodwill I’ve built up over the years disappears as soon as I step foot in the kitchen, five sets of startling gray eyes narrowed in on me.
This must be what it feels like to be trapped behind enemy lines. I wave with a wine bottle and Aunt Eva shuffles over.
“Are you late because you were having sex?” She grabs the bottle of wine out of my hand and nods at the label. I hear Luka mutter a creative string of curse words behind me. “Just because you two are humping like bunnies now doesn’t mean you can just show up late to things.”
A bouquet of mums is thrust between us, Luka’s eyebrows slanted low.
“We’re twenty minutes early, Aunt Eva.”
She reaches up and pinches both of his cheeks, following with kisses. “I’ll be the judge of that, Cucciolo. You”—she points to me and then points to an empty place at the counter where there looks to be about seventy-six pounds
of potatoes—“peel.”
“She’s a guest, Aunt Eva.”
“She is not a guest. She is family and she peels potatoes.”
I go to peel the potatoes. After Luka makes his round of greetings, cheeks a bright red from being pinched incessantly, he’s put to work as well, arranging and rearranging the table settings under the careful direction of his mother. Luka’s grandmother comes to me at the sink, peeler in hand. She grabs a potato and makes quick work of it, nodding in the direction of the dining room as Luka moves the gravy boat half an inch to the left, jaw clenched.
“It is tradition to make him flustered.” She winks at me. Poor Luka, the only son for all these women to torment. His aunts are intentionally and somewhat notoriously single. He says growing up, the little Italian town they lived in called them lupi che ululano. The women wolves who howl. “We like to guess how long it will take for him to start begging mercy from San Pietro.”
It takes another twenty minutes and an argument half in English and half in Italian about what should go on top of the sweet potatoes. He throws the bag of marshmallows clutched in his hand at the pantry in exasperation and stomps into the basement, hissing something about folding chairs. I notice he makes a stop at my purse first, a flash of silver in his hand. As soon as he’s gone, all the women start to laugh. There’s an exchange of money, and then Carina is sweeping over to me with mischief in her eyes, a kiss pressed to both of my cheeks.
“We are so happy to have you here, Stella.”
“I’m happy to be here.” I smile.
In fact, as the evening goes on and Luka emerges from the depths of the basement with two folding chairs under his arm and whiskey on his breath,
I’m pretty upset with myself for saying no to this for years. Aunt Sofia pulls out an album of Luka baby pictures during appetizers, her face positively alight with glee. I take it from her with greedy hands and get a glimpse of a sailor suit before Luka slams it shut again, taking it and tossing it on top of the fridge. It’s funny that he thinks I’m not above climbing up there.
He doesn’t bother hiding his flask after that.
It’s cozy and silly and sweet and a perfect holiday with family. Luka grabs my hand halfway through dinner and twines our fingers together, thumb brushing over my knuckles. I don’t know if it’s for the benefit of his aunts, or if this is one of those things that feels right, but I lean into it, resting my shoulder against his and scooping a bite of pie off his plate. By the time we’re leaving, I am stuffed to the brim with good food and even better company, my chest light for the first time in months. Apparently, a dinner with the full Peters-Russo family is a suitable distraction from a predominant fear of failure and abandonment.
I stand by the door, once again eyeballing a tower of leftovers that seems to stretch from floor to ceiling. This Tupperware is different, more modern, and I wonder if Luka’s mom picked it up after seeing the state of my fridge last week. I still haven’t managed to work my way through the dishes she brought over. I am out of tiramisu though. That went quickly once Luka found its hiding place wedged behind the spinach.
She adds another small dish on top as Luka pulls on his coat by the door. I have no idea what I’m going to do with all this food. “He likes cranberry with croissants in the morning,” she tells me with a wink.
Luka flushes pink for probably the hundredth time this evening. I’m delighted. “Grazie, Mama.” He kisses both her cheeks and then pulls her tight against his chest. He whispers something in her ear, something I can’t hear, and she closes her eyes tight, rocking into him. When her eyes blink open again, they’re shining with tears but smiling, and I avert my gaze to the baseboards.
“When are you visiting again?” she demands as he pulls open the door, a rush of cold air sweeping into the hallway.
“Can I leave before you ask?”
She pinches her mouth shut and watches pointedly as he takes a step onto the porch. He holds a hand out for me, taking half the Tupperware out of my arms. As soon as we’re over the threshold, she asks again. “And when will that be, Luka?”
I laugh. “How about you come to the farm this week? We’re having a guest, and I’m sure she’d love to meet you.”
Luka stares at me with a comically distraught face. Mistake, his eyes say, even as his mom claps her hands together and jumps in place. He just rolls his eyes and holds back a smile.
That’s all right. I’m smiling enough for the both of us.
“Oh, that’s right! You’re in that contest. The kids have been talking about it all week. There was some sort of sign-up sheet going around. They’ve been assigning shifts. Mr. Holloway confiscated it, thinking it was for the drugs”—Luka mouths the drugs behind her—“but handed it off to the PTA when he realized what it was. The adults decided to sign up too.”
I’m confused. “Sign up for what?”
“For visiting,” she says. She leans on the open doorway with her arms crossed over her chest. “We can’t have an empty farm for you while your fancy TokTok lady is in town. I think you’ll have a steady stream of visitors through the holiday season, the last I saw of it. Mabel is even hanging the Christmas decorations so we all look our best for you.”
I rapidly blink against the warm press of tears, Luka’s hand gentle at the small of my back. “Everyone—” I clear my throat. “They’re doing all of that for me?”
“I have my suspicions at Cindy Croswell signing up for a visit every day, of course, but yes.” She curls her fingers around the edge of the door, light and warmth and laughter spilling out onto the porch. “Don’t you know yet, Stella? This is your home. What is it—I know it in Italian, but—chi si volta, e chi si gira, sempre a casa va finire.”
Luka’s hand slips up my spine and curls over my shoulder. “No matter where you go, you will always end up at home.”
“Yes.” She snaps her fingers at her son. “And with home comes family.”
“HOW CAN YOU eat right now?”
Luka is stretched out across my couch, thick sweater bunched slightly around his middle, the bottom half of his button-down exposed. I got a glimpse earlier at his collar, but now I can see the pattern better. He has little turkey drumsticks dancing all over his shirt, tucked underneath a snug green knit. He forks another mouthful of pie out of the tin.
“I don’t know.” He groans. “I have no self-control.”
I feel like I’m the one with no self-control as I watch the way firelight dances over his skin. His mouth curls around the fork, a bit of whipped cream clinging to his top lip. I want to crawl on top of him, tuck my thighs against his hips, and lick it off.
He points at me with his fork. “Your thoughts are written all over your face.”
I sink farther in the cozy armchair by the window. “Are not.”
“You’re lusting after pie.”
I huff a laugh. I feel heavy with wine and want. “Am not.”
Luka levels me with a look and then carefully sets the pie tin on the coffee table, relaxing back against the couch, body loose angles. “Stella”—he swallows once, my name just as sweet on his tongue as that pumpkin pie
—“you can’t say things like that.”
“Why not?”
“Because.” His gaze is dark in the flickering light from the fireplace.
“Because it makes me want to kiss you, and you’re all the way over there.”
He rolls his head against the couch cushion to look at me, his hand resting on his belly. I wish I were resting right there. Awareness snaps between us, a thin string of desire pulling tight.
“I know we said we’d follow what’s right,” he says in a low voice. His eyes linger on my lips, captivated. Mine drift over the straight line of his jaw, the length of his throat, the jut of his collarbones through the crooked collar of his ridiculous shirt. I don’t think I’ve ever felt such anticipation before, the
curl of it heavy in my chest. “But you’ve gotta go first. I don’t want to feel like I’m pressuring you into anything.”
“That’s not fair.” I slip my legs out from where they’re tucked under me and place my mug of tea on the end table. Luka watches me, hands shifting to spread his arms wide against the back of the couch. I rise and take a step closer, and his knees tip open in invitation. “I don’t want to pressure you either.”
“How about this.” He grits his teeth, impatient, hands reaching out to me as soon as my feet step between his open thighs, fingers wrapping low around my hips. He tugs once, my left knee falling to the worn leather at his side. He tugs again, not satisfied until I’m balanced above him. He hums under his breath, contentment in the lazy slouch of his body, my thighs neatly bracketing his hips. Just how I wanted. “How about we pressure each other?”
I smile and rest my hands on his shoulders. “That sounds like a line.”
His nose scrunches, an adorable furrow between his brow. “If it is, it’s a bad one.”
“I don’t know, it seems to have worked out for you.”
I ignore the brief flash of warning in the back of my mind, the bright neon sign that’s blinking Wait, slow down. It’s hard to think about the consequences when his palm is warm on the small of my back, dragging up my spine. He tangles his hand lightly in my hair and tugs gently, just once, a flash of something decadent in amber eyes when I make a small noise in the back of my throat. He likes that noise, I can tell. He wants to hear it again.
I fix the collar of his shirt until it’s straight, my thumb brushing the bare skin at the hollow of his throat. He has freckles here too, lighter than the ones on his face. I drift my fingertips across a cluster of them at his collarbone, tracing a line to the center of his chest. He shivers against me.
“Still weird that it’s not weird,” I say, and he hums low in his chest, his body relaxing farther into the couch as I settle more fully on top of him.
It’s a delight to touch him like this. I watch him watching me, the hand in my hair uncurling from a fist to a gentle stroke, strands slipping through his fingers. He cups the back of my head and then lifts again, this time my curls
cascading around my shoulders and surrounding us both in a thick curtain of
black. A smile lights up his face.
“Your hair is soft too,” he whispers.
I feel soft. Soft and relaxed and languid in his hold, our chests brushing together with every inhale. I changed into an oversized sweater and an old pair of his sweatpants as soon as we got home, and I want him to take advantage. Dip his hand under the hem and find out if I’m soft everywhere.
But he doesn’t. One hand stays in my hair and the other stays at my hip as he tips his chin up, nudging my nose with his until I slip my hand to the back of his neck and brush our lips together.
“I’ve been thinking about kissing you all week,” I feel him say against my lips.
That’s nice. I’ve been thinking about kissing him since I was twenty- three.
The first time we kissed, it was gentle. Careful. He held my hand in his and curled around my body and kissed me like I was made of glass.
I do not extend the same courtesy.
I lean forward and catch his mouth with mine, my teeth grazing his bottom lip. I move my hand from the back of his neck to his jaw, guiding his mouth open with mine. He grunts like he’s taken a blow, the wind knocked out of his lungs. I can feel the question in the tense line of his body, the Should I that I lick off the tip of his tongue. He makes another pained noise, and then his body melts, his hands grab, and Luka shows me just how much he was holding back when he kissed me in the barn.
He’s insistent, impatient—a little bit greedy. It’s like he wants everything I have to give all at once. He chases my kiss, his thumb at my chin tipping my mouth open until everything slows into a wet slide of heat. He tastes like cinnamon and the whiskey he kept stealing sips of all night, and I let myself sink into the languid pull of it. Because now it feels like I’m the one that’s been punched in the chest, my heartbeat loud in my ears. I can feel my pulse everywhere. In the small of my wrists, the base of my spine, the place between my thighs where I’m spread over him. The hand at my hip traces down to curve over my ass, pressing me forward, tucking me close. It’s like
that morning in my bedroom, except better, because I can feel him now, hard and ready. The button of his jeans digs into my belly as I move closer and grind down a little, and he groans around my tongue—my favorite taste yet.
He breaks away from my mouth and drags biting kisses over my jaw to the hollow just behind my ear. I shiver and thread my fingers through his hair, rocking over his lap. He huffs a laugh, and I tug until I can see his face, the dancing flames from the fireplace casting him half in shadow, half in light. He smiles up at me and drops a kiss where my sweater has slouched down over one shoulder. He considers the stretch of bare skin and then tugs the sweater down a little more, kissing the soft skin just above my bra. He sighs and leans his forehead there, his muttered curse a benediction.
“I think I should sleep on the couch tonight.”
I hum and scratch my nails at his scalp. His whole body practically vibrates, and he nips at my chest where his mouth rests. I hope it leaves a mark.
“It’ll be a tight fit, but I think we can make it work.”
He groans and shakes his head, hips thrusting the slightest bit beneath me.
I want to chase the friction until the winding pressure within me builds and builds and snaps. I want panting breaths and tension stretched like taffy until I break. I want it on this couch. I want it in the hallway. I want it spread out on my dining room table.
“I wanna take my time,” he says, face somewhere in my sweater. “I wanna do this right.”
He tilts his head back to rest his chin against me, dark brown eyes hot on mine. “When did you get so tempting?”
His arms wrap fully around me, holding me close but also keeping me from moving against him. I recognize the moment has passed. Slow is probably a good thing when it comes to us, but right now it feels like my heart is ready to beat right out of my chest.
“I used to have control over myself,” he mutters, arms flexing around me.
I know the feeling.
