Page 39 of Awaiting the Storm (Wildhaven #1)

“ I can’t believe he showed up,” Holland says as he and I sit on the veranda, bourbon in hand.

Waylon arrived in the middle of the night. According to Mom, the entire house was startled awake by the loud, persistent pounding at three a.m.

She and Priscilla huddled at the top of the stairs while Holland answered the door, a Louisville Slugger in hand, to find his wayward son grinning with a duffel bag slung over his shoulder.

Priscilla was thrilled to tears. Holland was ready to wring his neck.

He drank too much and was overly cheerful at dinner, but he had seconds and thirds of his mother’s dressing and sweet potatoes, which delighted her and made it all worth it. Now he’s passed out in the living room while Mom and Priscilla are wrapping up the leftovers.

“Marcia told us that you two are having coffee and dessert over at Wildhaven Storm,” Holland says.

I nod. “Yep. Matty said I might as well bring Mom for introductions while the whole crazy family is home.”

He smiles. “You know, there’s a lot to be said for homes with large, crazy families. They sure beat big, quiet, empty houses.”

I don’t miss his sadness, masked by the smile.

“I want to thank you for bringing your mom to spend the holiday weekend here. It’s been great seeing Priscilla so happy, playing hostess. And thank you for reaching out to Waylon. I know he only came because you’d asked.”

I nod. “Thank you for the job, for the place to lay my head, and for bringing me home,” I mutter. Then add, “And for making me go toe to toe with Maitland Storm.”

He chuckles. “You’re mighty welcome, son.”

Mom smooths her coat over her lap and peers up at the house. “You sure we shouldn’t have brought something? A pie or a bottle of wine?” she asks, not for the first time.

I chuckle, rounding the hood to open her door. “I told you, I offered, and they practically demanded we didn’t.”

She hesitates for a moment, glancing at the lit porch again. “Well, I’m not used to showing up empty-handed. It feels like we’re imposing.”

“You’re not,” I say, offering her my hand. “Come on. They’ll love you.”

She scoffs, but she takes my hand.

Inside, the house smells of cinnamon and apple pie, mixed with a hint of cedar from the crackling fire in the living room.

Voices rise and fall in a rhythm that only families who know each other well can create.

I feel a heavy longing in my chest—from how much I crave this kind of warmth and this kind of noise.

I want it for Mom too. I know she’s been lonely since Dad passed away, even if she would never admit it.

“Don’t take your boots off!” someone hollers from the back of the house. “We’re outta wine, and there’s still pie!”

“That’s Charli,” I tell Mom, grinning.

“See, I told you we should have brought a bottle of wine,” Mom says out of the corner of her mouth.

We step inside and are immediately engulfed in chaos and joy.

Laughter explodes from the living room, where a group of boys—Cabe, Axle, and Royce—are seated around a coffee table, locked in a game of what looks like poker.

Cabe slaps a hand of cards down and whoops.

Royce groans and throws his head back while Axle mutters something about his baby brother being a cheater.

Earl and Albert are sunk deep in recliners, eyes glued to the football game on TV. Grandpa Earl’s cradling a steaming mug, and Albert’s got a bowl of mixed candied nuts in his lap, absentmindedly munching as he watches the action on the screen.

In the kitchen, the women are gathered around the dining table like a coven, each holding a cocktail glass. Matty stands out immediately—not because she is louder or flashier than the others, but because she draws my attention like a moth to a flame, even in a crowd.

She sees us first. Her eyes land on mine, and I catch the way her mouth softens into a smile, slow and warm. She stands and crosses the room without hesitation, weaving around chairs and her sisters, until she’s in front of us.

“I’m so glad you came,” she says, voice low.

“You think we’d pass on Grandma Storm’s famous pie?” I say and watch the smile spread across Evelyn’s face. “Not a chance.”

Matty glances at my mother. “Hi, Marcia. I’ll take your coat.”

Mom steps forward, smiling widely as she shrugs out of her jacket and hands it off to Matty.

Charli swoops in behind her, cranberry cocktail sloshing in her glass.

“You must be Caison’s mom,” she says, grabbing Mom’s hand.

“We’ve been dyin’ to meet you. I’m Charli.

That’s Shelby there in the peach sweater, Harleigh’s the one playing with her phone, and that’s my aunt Irene and uncle Boone by the stove.

” She leans over and whispers, “Don’t let them fool you; they look all nice and friendly, but they’re the bossy ones in the family. ”

As if on cue, Irene hollers across the kitchen, “Charli Lynn, if you spill another drop of that cocktail on the floor, you’ll be on moppin’ duty in the morning.”

“I always am!” she calls back sweetly. Then cuts her eyes back to us. “See what I mean?”

Harleigh tosses a braid over her shoulder and waves. “Hi, Mrs. Galloway! Sorry about the other night.”

“Please call me Marcia,” Mom says.

“And just what happened the other night?” Evelyn questions.

“Nothing, Grandma,” Charli bellows, and then she looks at me and says a silent, Eek , before bringing a finger to her lips to shush me.

“Charli, let them in. Come have a seat, Marcia. Uncle Boone will pour you a cocktail. Won’t you, Uncle Boone?” Shelby calls.

He lifts his hand in agreement and pulls a glass from the cupboard.

“Y’all are too much,” Mom says, laughing as she sweeps past me toward the table.

I glance down as Matty returns from hanging Mom’s coat .

I wrap my arms around her from behind before she can say a word, pulling her close. She leans into me, back against my chest, and tips her head just enough that I can press a kiss into her hair. She smells like cranberries and oranges, and her body’s soft and warm in my arms.

The poker game erupts again—Cabe slamming down another hand and Axle groaning like he’s been robbed twice.

“Sorry about all the racket,” Matty mutters.

“I don’t mind it one bit,” I say, resting my chin on her head.

“They’ve been at it since they finished off the turkey,” Matty says.

I smile as Grandma Evelyn charms my mother with stories about Matty as a kid, and Grandpa Earl gives her a nod from his recliner, eyes still locked on the football game.

Boone hands Mom a glass filled with red liquid, garnished with sugared cranberries, and offers her a plate and fork, pointing to the array of pie dishes in the center of the table.

“Best bourbon cherry crisp pie this side of the Rockies,” he promises as he scoots one closer to Mom.

“He has to say that,” Irene adds. “I baked that one.”

Royce and Axle take a break from cards to come say hello and grab a slice of sticky pecan pie. Matty pulls me toward the kitchen to grab two plates. I load mine with a slice of apple and pecan.

The house feels alive.

I’ve been to a lot of homes. Fancy homes. Places where people wear suits to dinner and clink crystal glasses. But none of those places have ever made me feel as welcome as this one does right now. A house where love wraps around you like a quilt.

Matty curls up beside me on the oversized leather chair while I chat football with her father. Every time she leans over to whisper something about Cabe cheating or her grandma’s second cocktail kicking in, I fall a little more.

Across the room, my mom is mid-conversation with Charli and Shelby, and I can see from her face that she’s enjoying herself more than she expected.

Matty follows my gaze. “Think she’s having a good time?”

“She is,” I say. “She hasn’t laughed like that in a long time.”

For a long while, we just sit there, soaking it all in. I don’t want to move. Don’t want the night to end .

I find her hand and lace our fingers together. Bringing her hand up to my lips, I kiss the inside of her wrist. “I’d like to make a habit of this. You and me. Holidays. Chaos,” I say, then wag my eyebrows. “Pie.”

The poker game. The football game. The sisters bickering over who sugared the cranberries. The way her head fits perfectly beneath my chin when I pull her back into my arms. The way her family laughs and loves—all of it.

“Okay,” she whispers.

I kiss her lips, then tuck her into my side.

I catch Albert Storm out of the corner of my eye. His eyes are on the television, but his attention is on the two of us.

And he tips his chin and smiles.