Page 63 of King of Pain

“Done. I’ll borrow Lexi’s car and pick everything up,” Chance says with a nod. “What’s on the menu?”

I hesitate for a second, wondering if he really wants the details. But when I glance at him, his expression is genuinely interested, so I launch into it. “Turkey, of course. Italian stuffing, roasted garlic and cream cheese mashed potatoes, homemade mac and cheese, asparagus with hollandaise, and lasagna.”

“You’re making all of that? Ant, that’s insane.”

I shrug, trying to play it cool. “It’s not that big a deal. I like cooking, and honestly, Thanksgiving is one of the easiest meals to cook.”

He smirks. “You’re not fooling me. You’re basically a culinary wizard, and you love showing off.”

I laugh despite myself. “Okay, maybe a little. But seriously, it’s not that hard. Especially if everyone else is bringing desserts.”

“Yes, I’m glad that’s the plan,” Chance says, grinning. “Because if you were going to make pies and cakes on top of all that, I’d have to stage an intervention.”

I shake my head, smiling into my coffee. “No, desserts can be up to the guests. If you can let Lexi know, I’ll tell Butters. If you think I’m good in the kitchen, you should taste his cooking. Italian comfort is my specialty—he does the high-end gourmet shit. It’s impressive. Jen… well she can pick up something from the store.”

Chance snickers. “Jen baking? Yeah, I can’t see it.”

We spend the next few minutes ironing out the details: when to pick up the tables and chairs, what time everyone’s arriving, and how we’ll set up the space. Talking about it eases some of the nervous energy that’s been buzzing under my skin since I woke up.

Chance leans back against the counter, crossing his arms over his chest. “You’re pretty incredible, Ant.”

I glance at him, startled by the sincerity in his voice. “It’s just dinner, Chance.”

“It’s not just dinner,” he says, shaking his head. “You’re going all out to make this special for everyone that won’t be with family for the holiday. That’s... not something most people would do, particularly at our age.”

His words flatter me, but they also make me feel exposed. I look away, focusing on my coffee mug. “It’s nothing,” I mumble.

“Bullshit,” he says softly, and when I glance up, he’s watching me with an expression that makes my heart race. “You’re one of a kind, Beautiful.”

The way he said that sends a shiver down my spine, but before I can even think of what to say, Little G lets out a loud snore from his bed, breaking the moment. Chance laughs, and I join in, grateful for the distraction.

“I should probably start my list for the market,” I say, setting my mug down and moving toward the fridge. “I’ll probably start cooking a couple days early. With one oven and a small kitchen it will be easier to do the lasagna and potatoes ahead of time. Lasagna is always better after it’s had a day to set anyway.”

“You sure you don’t need any help?” Chance asks, as I open the fridge.

“I’m sure,” I say, glancing at him over my shoulder. “But I’ll let you know if that changes.”

“Deal,” he says, grabbing his phone from the counter. “I’ll text Lexi about dessert.”

As he taps away on his phone, I start taking inventory of ingredients in the fridge, mentally running through my grocery list and game plan for the day.

Despite the nerves that linger from the events of last night and whatever this is that Chance is unraveling inside of me, I can’t help but feel a small flicker of excitement. Friendsgiving is shaping up to be something special, and I feel like I’m doing something good for the guy who’s opened his home to me.

And something tells me Chance needs this more than he’s revealing.

TRACK TWENTY•SEVEN

We’re Not Gonna Take It

Chance

15 Years Old

The table is set beautifully, like it always is on Thanksgiving. My mom's always been big on presentation—everything must look perfect, even if we both know the day itself rarely is. The turkey sits in the middle of the table, golden and glistening under the light, surrounded by bowls of mashed potatoes, stuffing, green beans, and her new attempt at homemade cranberry sauce. She’s been experimenting with recipes, trying to make things “a little fancier,” as she puts it. She knows I like that.

I catch her eye as she sets the last bowl down, and I shoot her a grateful smile. “Thanks for cooking, Ma. It all looks amazing.”

Her face softens, the lines around her eyes crinkling with that warmth she always tries to project. “You’re welcome, sweetheart.”