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“Hi, Nana, I told you I’ll be here.”

“And you brought someone with you,” teases his grandfather in a thick Swiss accent, who was quietly smiling as he watched his wife hug their grandson. “Aren’t you going to introduce us?”

I’m standing mute to the side. Kingston tugs me back into his arms, where I’ve been attached to the whole night, and introduces me. “Nonno, meet Twinkle. She’s mine.”

That’s it.

No explanation or anything.

Kingston possessively announces we’re together.

His grandparents’ eyes light up in a way that is a dead giveaway their grandson has mentioned me before.

I should be suspicious but I’m still stuck on how Kingston simply calls mehis.

The single syllable holds so much depth and power.

It sends my heart soaring and jumping up and down in a happy dance, when it should freaking scare me.

Yet it doesn’t.

Me? The girl who has run away from commitment her whole life is suddenly in sync with a domineering man calling me his in front of his family on our not-so-official second date.

Must be something in the air.

“Twinkle, such a unique and pretty name,” compliments his grandmother.

My eyes widen when she wraps me in a bear hug, and I murmur, “Nice to meet you, Mrs.—”

“Call me Nana,” she says before I can finish.

Emotions clog my throat and I whisper, “Nana.”

I swear every member in this family is doing some sort of magic and making me act against my nature. Or perhaps it’s the holiday season making me soft and emotional. This time of the year is always hard on me because I came from a broken family.

“Come inside, you two,” says Kingston’s granddad. “Mila baked all your favorite sweets and cookies.”

“Oh God!” I gasp, my stomach screaming in protest.

Kingston hears it and laughs. “That’s what we’ve been doing the last hour, Nonno. We eat any more, we’ll burst.”

“Hot coffee then.”

“Darling?” murmurs Kingston in question.

“Coffee sounds nice.”

The four of us enter the house and go straight to the living room. Family portraits hang on one wall while a huge plasma screen is mounted on another. A candle burns in the corner, its aroma floating around the space and smelling like lavender.

The men leave Kingston’s grandma and me alone and go to the kitchen to make our coffees.

“You have a beautiful home,” I compliment.

“Thank you, hon.” She watches me sweetly and asks, “So Kingston tells me you’re from India.”

“He has talked about me before?” I’m curious to know since when and just how much he’s told them about me. I want to know everything.

She must sense my mind whirring because she reassuringly says, “He called me a few hours ago and we chatted a little about you.”