Page 14 of In Hot Water (The Hot Brothers #3)
CHAPTER TWELVE
ISLA
I’ve never had a panic attack in my life, but I’m about three seconds from one as we turn onto the long gravel drive that leads to the Hot home.
Oh man. “I’m about to barf up the cup of coffee I inhaled before we left the apartment.”
Dawson flashes me that perfect, infuriating grin as he parks in front of the large home. He hops out, walks around to my side of the vehicle, and helps me out of the small little sports car. “They’re going to love you. Stop worrying.”
Before I can fire back a response, the front door slams open and Dawson’s mom barrels down the porch steps. She’s shorter than I expected, a soft blonde tornado in a white t-shirt and black yoga pants, and she beelines for me.
“Isla!” she calls, and I barely have time to brace before she wraps me in a hug so tight my shoes leave the ground. “Oh, honey, you’re even prettier in person!”
I’m getting crushed and complimented at the same time. I love her instantly. “Thank you, Mrs. Hot.”
“Call me Debra. Or Mom. It’s up to you.” She sets me down, keeps a hand on my arm like I might bolt for the trees, and yells back over her shoulder, “Joe, get your slow ass out here and meet Isla.”
An older version of Dawson comes strolling out of the house. “Hold your horses. Manning the grill is a full-time job,” he grumbles and walks over to hold out his hand to me. “Nice to meet you, Isla.”
“You, too,” I mutter as the Hot matriarch starts marching me toward the house, her grip ironclad. “Don’t mind the mess, we’re always a circus on Sundays.” I catch Dawson’s eye, and he just winks at me as he follows us into the house.
Inside is pure mayhem. The entire first floor is open-concept, which means noise ricochets off the walls like dodgeballs.
The kitchen is alive with action. Atlas is scrambling eggs at the stove while a woman I assume is his wife is chopping fruit with the precision of a samurai.
Ian, the third brother, is making orange juice with an old-fashioned hand-crank, wearing a tee that says “Feel the Burn” and a pair of faded jeans.
Ian’s wife, meanwhile, is setting the table at lightning speed, barking instructions at everyone in a way that somehow isn’t annoying, just… efficient.
Dawson’s mom deposits me in the middle of the fray and immediately starts introducing me to everyone. “This is Isla—Isla, this is Atlas, and that’s his lovely wife Eloise, and over there is Ian and his wife Sage.”
Ian smirks at me. “Been waiting to meet the woman who slapped cuffs on my asshole brother,” he says, eyes twinkling. “Nice to finally meet you.”
I feel my ears turn red as I tell myself he’s talking about the day I arrested Dawson. “It was, uh, strictly professional.”
Dawson snorts. “Very professional. She read me my rights and everything.”
“I bet.” Ian smirks, and my face really turns beet red, remembering the last time I “read” Dawson his rights.
Dawson’s mom hustles over with a giant glass of orange juice and an enormous smile. “Sit, sit! You must be starving, you little thing. Look at you. Are you eating enough?”
“Mom, you’re embarrassing her,” Dawson says, but it’s obvious he loves every second of this. He slides in beside me at the breakfast bar, wrapping his arm around my shoulders in a not-so-subtle show of support. I lean into him, trying to remember how to breathe.
The kitchen smells like fresh coffee, frying bacon, and something yeasty and sweet I can’t quite identify. Freaking heaven. Eloise sets down a heaping platter of biscuits and a dish of whipped honey butter.
Somewhere in the commotion, Dawson’s mom pours herself a mug of coffee and settles in next to me. “So, Isla, tell us everything. Where’d you grow up? Do you have any siblings? Is your family close?”
I blink, feeling the spotlight hit me straight in the face. I’m not used to this. I’m used to being the one asking questions, not answering them. I glance at Dawson, hoping for a lifeline, but he just squeezes my hand under the table, his thumb tracing little circles on my skin.
“I, uh, grew up in foster care in Houston.” I fidget with my napkin, wondering if that’s a deal breaker for her.
Dawson’s mom makes a sympathetic tsk and covers my hand with hers. “Well, you’re family now. No escape.”
Joe raises his glass. “To the newest Hot Family victim—uh, member. Welcome to the madhouse.”
Everyone cheers, and for a second, I almost tear up. The noise, the chaos, the warmth—I don’t know how I ever lived without it.
The rest of the meal is a blur. Every time I finish one thing, someone else plops more food on my plate.
By the time coffee and pie show up, my nerves are shot, and my face hurts from smiling. I look over at Dawson, expecting him to be mortified, but he’s just watching me, eyes soft, thumb still running circles on my hand like he’s memorizing every line of my palm.
He leans in close and whispers, “Told you they’d love you.”
I roll my eyes but can’t keep the smile off my face. “I’m pretty sure your mom is already planning our wedding.”
He grins, all teeth and mischief. “She doesn’t have to. I’ve been planning it since the moment you slapped cuffs on me.” Then he leans over to whisper in my ear, “The first time.”
For the first time in my life, I feel like I’m exactly where I belong.