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“Thanks,” Bridget gives him a smile and the bottle of champagne.

“I guess they’re Jefferson’s guests?” I ask, watching them cut through the house to the backdoor.

“I suppose.” He eyes the platter in my hands. “Twy’s upstairs changing. She just got here.”

“Already?” The basketball team had an away game over night and according to her text, the bus pulled in about thirty minutes ago. As part of the staff, her duties aren’t over the minute she walks off the bus. She has to stick around and help get all the medical supplies back in the training room or attend to any injuries before leaving. “She must have rushed.”

“Reese picked her up,” he says, closing the door behind me. Although the Manor is an older home like ours, it’s been upgraded over the years. The living room is set up with comfortable couches and a big TV and the kitchen is an open concept, with a well-equipped kitchen that has a large eat-in bar. At parties it becomes a real bar, loaded with bottles and cups, but today it’s filled with food. A girl I recognize as Reid’s on-again-off-again girlfriend, Darla, organizes the dishes.

Guess they’re back on.

Reid grabs a beer and heads outside, but not before stopping by Darla and giving her a kiss on the neck. “I’ll go make sure they’re not over-cooking the bird.”

Still clutching the platter in my hands, I ask Darla, “Where do you want me to put this?”

“What category does it fall in? Main, side, or dessert?”

“Um,” I stall, shifting from one foot to the other. This was dumb. I should have just brought rolls from the store or a green bean casserole. “I’m not exactly sure.”

Darla gives me a look like I’m an idiot, and takes the platter out of my hands.

As she rearranges the space for the tray, shifting a pan of mac n’ cheese to make room, the spicy scent of meat and peppers fills the room. On the staircase, Twyler walks down in jeans and a cropped sweater. For Twy, that’s dressing up.

“Holy shit,” Darla says. “Did you make these?”

With Twyler out of the house, the gym closed for the impending holiday, and too much time on my hands, I’d spent the day looking up recipes, buying ingredients and started baking. I’d made six batches overall, scrapping the first three, salvaging the fourth, and was pretty pleased with the last two.

Twyler says, staring down at the pastries, “What the hell, Nadia, since when did you go all Rachel Ray?”

“I, uh, saw it on ChattySnap. Apparently they’re popular in some regions for Thanksgiving and figured I’d give it a try.”

It’s a lie, of course. I’d made them for Axel. He’d looked so miserable talking about his family, only perking up when he spoke about the kolaches.

A loud shout echoes from the backyard and Darla and Twyler move over to look out the window. “Seriously? Would it kill him to wear a shirt?”

There’s only one person Twyler could be talking about and my pulse kicks into gear at the thought of him. Sure enough,when I look out the window I see Axel; shirtless with all those muscles and tattoos on display. He’s laughing at something Jefferson said while Kirby moves around in a dramatic reenactment of a hockey move.

The two puck bunnies, along with Kirby’s girlfriend, Claire, and a few other girls, stand to the side, watching the guys goof around. Are their eyes fixed on the way Axel’s jeans cling deliciously from his hips? On the trail of dark blond hair tapering under the waistband?

Or maybe that’s just me.

“First of all, it’s forty freaking degrees.” Twyler shakes her head. “And second, that’s hot oil! He could burn himself.”

Never one to let a potential injury happen on her watch, Twyler huffs out of the room and out the back door. I can hear her start up before she hits the grass. “Axel Rakestraw, step away from the turkey fryer.”

Darla and I stay glued to the window like we’re watching an episode of Springfield.

“Hey, TG.” His eyes sweep over her. “You’re looking good.”

“Shut the fuck up about my girl, man.” Reese’s fist slams into Axel’s bicep, then he looks at Twyler. “He’s right, Sunshine, you’re gorgeous.”

Twyler is unfazed by either man. “Do you know what emergency rooms look like on holidays like this? They’re packed. Primary reasons: knife accidents and burns.”

“I’m not going to get burned,” he says, watching Jefferson check on the bird. “Jeff on the other hand…”

“Jefferson is wearing a shirt.”

“Baby,” he drawls, clearly working to get a rise out of his roommate and mine, “I’m from Texas, barbecue is our thing. I’m not getting near that contraption. It’s sacrilege.” He smirks. “Although I appreciate your concern. Shows you care.”