Page 17 of Make You Mine
I smooth a wrinkle from the table runner with the side of my hand, then step back and take in the setup.
The candles are lit, the dishes arranged just so, and the gold-rimmed glasses catch the soft light like they’re showing off.
Across from me, Willow carefully lays down a folded napkin, her little fingers fussing with it until it sits just the way she wants.
She looks up at me with a hopeful smile. “Does it look okay, Mommy?”
I smile back. “It looks perfect, baby.”
It’s the first time all day she’s really smiled at me, and I feel a wave of relief. Maybe we’ve gotten past the grocery store incident after all. Her earlier pout has given way to a sweetness that tugs at my heart.
Chelsea appears in the doorway, holding a glass vase with a bundle of tulips she’s arranged into a centerpiece. She carries it like it’s something precious, but her expression is casual, like she just threw it together on a whim.
“For the finishing touch,” she says brightly, setting it in the center of the table. “I plucked them from the garden.”
“Thanks. Your green thumb continues to come in handy,” I tell her, stepping aside to give her room. “And thank you for staying late to help out tonight.”
She waves a hand dismissively. “No trouble at all. At least here I get a proper meal. If I’d gone home, I’d be eating a microwave ready meal out the carton.”
She releases a light laugh and turns to adjust one of the place settings, but as she passes me, I catch it—that familiar musky warmth, sweet with a hint of spice.
My perfume.
I frown, not saying anything at first. Maybe I’m imagining it. But the scent’s too distinct, too familiar. I glance at her, hesitating before I ask. “Are you wearing Velvet Sin?”
Chelsea pauses mid-step, then laughs like I’ve caught her hand in the cookie jar. “I am, actually. I liked it so much I picked up a bottle from Harrods last week.”
My brows twitch. I nod, trying to play it off, but the knot forming in my stomach tightens. Why would she buy it without saying anything?
That doesn’t sit right with me…
The sound of tires crunching on the gravel driveway saves me from responding. A moment later, Willow’s eyes go wide and she sprints for the front of the house.
“Daddy’s home!”
Chelsea watches her dart off, then smiles as she disappears after her. “I’ll get the door.”
I stay behind, still gripping the edge of the table. Maybe I’m overreacting. Maybe it’s nothing. But the feeling in my gut isn’t nothing. It’s a low thrum of irritation I can’t seem to shake, and it’s building.
Quiet but steady.
Declan’s voice carries through the foyer, then he enters the dining room with Willow in his arms. She giggles as he hoists her up higher before setting her down again.
“Go wash up, little lady,” he says, giving her a gentle tap on the back as she scampers off. He turns to me and presses a kiss to my cheek. “You alright?”
I blink, caught off guard. “Yeah… I’m fine.”
His mouth quirks into a grin. “Good. The Doyles’ll be here any minute.”
And just like that, the pressure kicks up another notch.
By the time we finally sit down at the table, I feel like I’ve run a marathon.
My curls are frizzing around my temples from the steam in the kitchen, my blouse smells like fried fish, and my glucose monitor has already beeped once.
But the table’s set, the food’s hot, and the guests have arrived.
All I need to do is survive the next couple of hours without flipping the table or strangling anyone.
Cormac Doyle is exactly as Declan described him—loud, ruddy-cheeked, already two drinks deep. He plants himself at the head of the table with a grunt and a laugh, pulling his cloth napkin into his collar like it’s a lobster bib.
His wife, Marge, settles beside him with all the delicacy of a crane folding its wings—thin, composed, her wiry arms resting neatly in her lap.
She hasn’t said much since they walked through the door, but her eyes haven’t stopped moving, scanning every detail of my home like she’s mentally cataloging each picture frame and knickknack.
“This is a lovely home,” she says at last, her tone clipped. “Your decor is charming but not overdone.”
The compliment catches me off guard.
“Oh. Thank you,” I say, smiling politely. “I’ve been slowly adding things here and there. I wanted it to feel warm.”
Marge nods, like I’ve passed some silent test.
From beside her, Cormac slaps the table with his palm and leans back in his chair. “Y’know, I knew the bloke who used to live in this house with his wife and kid. Name was Greg… no, Garrett… no, Gareth! That was it. Gareth something. Sad story, though. Poor sod offed himself?—”
“Cormac,” Marge hisses, shooting him a sharp look. “Can we please be civilized at the dinner table?”
Declan and I exchange glances across the plates of food. He arches a brow, and I press my lips together to keep from laughing out of sheer discomfort. Chelsea, seated beside Willow, pretends to be deeply interested in folding her napkin.
The conversation shifts when the food starts making its way around. Fried catfish, mac and cheese bubbling at the edges, and of course, the mustard greens, which are still a sore spot in the back of my mind.
Cormac digs in like a man who hasn’t seen a home-cooked meal in weeks. “Jesus, this is good,” he says through a mouthful of fish. “Tell me there’s more where that came from. I’ll be begging for seconds.”
Marge nibbles on a corner of her plate like a bird. She pushes the greens around with her fork, then takes a small bite. “The greens are... unusual.”
Chelsea pipes up, tone cheerful. “Funny story, actually. We accidentally picked up the wrong kind at the store, didn’t we, Amerie?” She pauses for a laugh. “But I think they turned out lovely. You seasoned them perfectly.”
I breathe through my nose and try not to let my irritation show. But my fingers curl around my fork, and I’m pretty certain my left eye twitches. Under the table, Declan places a warm hand on my knee, a silent tether that keeps me from snapping. I exhale slowly and reach for my wine glass.
Cormac doesn’t seem to notice any tension at all. He’s already moved on to bragging.
“This one,” he says, jerking a thumb at Declan. “He’s brought Halberd more profit in the last quarter than the entire bloody team did last year. The man’s a machine. You should be proud of him.”
“I am,” I say honestly, the tension in my chest loosening. “He’s been working hard.”
Declan grins at me and squeezes my knee again. That small look from him makes the entire day feel worth it.
Almost.
Dessert, unfortunately, is a different story.
I bring out what I can salvage: a bowl of peaches served with scoops of vanilla ice cream. Not the peach cobbler I promised. Not the rich, bubbling, golden-brown masterpiece I’d envisioned. But it’s something.
Cormac doesn’t seem to care.
“Now this hits the spot,” he says, licking his spoon like a child. “Simple, sweet, and cold. Just what the doctor ordered.”
Marge says nothing. She dabs her mouth with her napkin and offers a tight smile.
A few hours later, the house is quiet again. The kids are tucked in—Willow curled up with her stuffed rabbit and Emmett finally asleep after his last bottle—and I’m in our bedroom slipping out of my shoes.
Declan steps closer, unbuttoning his dress shirt.
“Alright, love,” he says gently. “What’s been bothering you all night?”
I pause, hands resting on the dresser. “Nothing.”
“Amerie.”
I close my eyes, fighting the urge to brush it off again. “I just… I wanted tonight to go right. I wanted to come through for you. I know how much this dinner meant for your work, and I screwed up the greens, and dessert was a disaster, and?—”
He cuts me off with a kiss. “You always come through for me,” he says against my lips. “You do it just by being you.”
I blink at him, caught between relief and guilt.
He reaches for my hand and squeezes. “You were incredible tonight. Don’t let a few silly things twist you up.”
I nod, finally letting myself believe him. As I crawl into bed beside him, I realize I’ve been projecting my stress onto everyone around me… especially Chelsea. And maybe she didn’t mean any harm. Maybe I’ve been too harsh.
Tomorrow, I’ll try again. Tomorrow, I’ll be better.