Page 80 of Merry Fake Bride

“Thanks! I tried to make it festive with the stars. Mom suggested turkeys because of Thanksgiving, but I was against walking around town with those birds on my arm.” My smile comes easily until I register how long I’ve been clutching Kairo’s bare arm.

His shirt sleeves are nearly tucked up at his elbows, so there’s nothing between my palm and the faint flutter of his pulse at his wrist.

The warmth suddenly turns scorching, like someone has flicked a switch between us, and our eyes lock.

“The stars are perfect,” Kairo says in a low voice. “I wouldn’t have expected anything else. They remind me of some of the cupcakes I saw when I first visited the bakery. I remember thinking they sparkled more than I thought food was capable of.”

“I do have a talent,” I tease. I should remove my hand, but now that I’m aware of it, I can’t. Or is it because I don’t want to? The heat rising between our point of contact isn’t unpleasant, but my heart is racing as if something else is going to happen. It’s like energy is building between us, and as soon as I move, it will explode like a crack of lightning.

I’m rescued by Dad appearing in the hall, brandishing a carving knife. “Are you two coming to eat or is this Thanksgiving just for Martin?”

It spurs us both into action and we break apart while sweat prickles at my hairline and my heart continues to race.

I lead Kairo into the lounge where our furniture has been pushed against the wall to make space for the dining table that spends ten months of the year folded up behind the couch.

It’s surrounded by wooden chairs and laden down with all types of food.

Dad stands at the head of the table, brandishing his carving knife before a small roasted turkey that my mother and I spent all day cooking.

Just beside it sits a dish of creamy mashed potatoes, green beans covered in cheese, two dishes of candied yams as they’re dad’s favorite, and a small dish of roasted corn.

Near my mother, who sits beside my father, are the sauces.

There are two types of gravy, cranberry sauce, and a spicy homemade sauce of my father’s secret recipe.

The rest of the table is filled with stuffing balls hand-rolled by me, soft rolls in a basket, and corn bread next to a stick of butter.

Right in the middle of the table, hugging the candle holder, are several pies—pumpkin, apple, and chocolate cinnamon.

Martin’s already seated and gazing at all the food with his mouth open.

Even Kairo looks taken aback, so I gently take his hand which immediately draws his attention away from the food.

“Your seat is next to mine,” I say softly. “This one.”

His hand is nice in mine.

His grip remains feather-light and even as his fingers naturally flex as he walks, nothing about it ignites my flight.

I lead him to his seat, which is in front of a small covered dish, and sit next to him as he lowers himself down.

Even seated, he’s still amusingly a head taller than me.

“This is just for you,” Mom says and she leans across the table. As she removes the lid, I watch Kairo’s face flicker from confusion to something soft I can’t quite decipher.

The dish features a small roast chicken, seasoned and surrounded by carrots, parsnips, and sweet onions.

“You made this for me?” His eyes dart from me to my mother, who nods with a warm smile.

“Devon told me you aren’t a fan of turkey and she picked this up from the market.”

He falls silent, staring at the dish.

Even Martin notices, and a flicker of a frown crosses his features until my father takes all the attention by beginning to carve the turkey.

I watch Kairo.

He seems troubled by the chicken for a long moment, then his eyes meet mine and the softest smile I’ve ever seen creeps across his face.