Page 82 of Falling for the Orc All-Star

“Dad, shush. Some older women try to get pregnant first. Ingrid’s... what? Forty?”

I’m going to kill Dillon.

I can hear King’s snarl, and it’s oddly comforting. “I should say that Ihopethat’s the way it is.”

“Ingrid, come and help me with the potatoes. I saved enough that we’ll have plenty for mashed potatoes.”

“Mom, how many pounds is this?” I gasp.

“Just twenty.”

“Might as well be cooking for an aircraft carrier crew,” I mumble.

“Training or not, I still don’t think it’s wise to have a dog in the home until a child is five or six. You know how they put things in their mouths.” Janice shudders. “Dog hair, feces on their paws, slobber... Honestly, I can’t believe the American Academy of Pediatrics hasn’t given suggested guidelines about allowing dogs in homes with infants and toddlers.”

King picks up a potato peeler. “I thought we avoided this by getting here at ten?” he whispers.

“Shh.”

“And Tyler was sooo happy when you made him send his dogs away to live with his parents, right, sis?” Dillon steals a brownie out of the pan, and my mother sighs.

“The dogs will come back when the kids are older,” Janice says, heat in her voice, her whisking turning vicious. Splatters of pumpkin decorate her apron and the sleeves of her blouse. “Oh! Dillon, get out of here. Go help your wife with your babies.”

“My seven-year-olds? They’re playing on their laptops.”

“You brought laptops to a family dinner?” Janice hisses. “Daddy!”

“Ingrid, take the bowl from your sister.” Jonathan looks up, his mild, sheep-like face confused. “ You’re not dressed to help in the kitchen, Jan. Let Ingrid do it; she’s dressed to get messy.”

I wordlessly hold out my arms for the bowl, which Janice passes to me with a fixed smile. “Daddy, that’s not the issue! My nieces are being ruined with screentime!”

“You wouldn’t let them help in the kitchen!”

“They could be playing with their cousins.”

“Speaking of that, you keep popping them out, Janice. The oldest is eight, the youngest is three. Gonna have another one so you can keep the dogs out of the house for another decade? Unless Tyler’s dogs are some kind of magical breed, they’re gonna be—”

“Enough! Dillon, out. Jan, there’s some stain spray in the laundry room. King, you have to excuse our silly little family squabbles. Sit and put your feet up. How did you hurt your leg?” My mother takes charge, shoving people gently where she wants them to go. She nudges me towards the stove.

I’m beginning to wonder if it would be less painful to crawl in with the turkey.

The doorbell rings, and King and I exchange a look. “Should I answer that?” I ask with as much sweetness as I can hang onto.

“Oh, it’ll just be Aunt Lillian and Uncle Luke. Both of their boys are with their wives’ families this year. I’ll get the door, you get that in the pie crust.”

Mom flees, and King and I close ranks.

“I’m sorry.” I give him my best soulful eyes. “I understand if you want to go find a nice, quiet city dump to sit in.”

“Shush. I love being with you. Would it be bad if I smeared Janice's kids with gravy and let the dogs lick them? Would she clutch her pearls until they broke, or just hyperventilate while spraying them with Lysol?”

I jump up and kiss his jaw, not quite making it to his cheek. “I love you, and I need a stepstool.”

“Oh, my goodness. Where’d they grow him at?” Uncle Luke walks in and stares. “Ingy, where’d you find Stretch?”

“This is King, Uncle Luke. I found him in my waiting room with a bad knee injury, and I liked him so much I decided to keep him.” I hope my teasing tone will make up for the rude way my uncle is staring.

Shit, does his glamour not work? Is Uncle Luke one of the rare people with the ability to see paranormal people?