Page 81 of Merry Fake Bride

“Is it too much?” My heart pounds for a new reason. Maybe I was too presumptuous. Maybe he doesn’t even like chicken anymore. Is this too personal? Perhaps I’m overthinking it.

Just as my mind races and my leg starts to shuffle, Kairo’s hand covers mine on the table and everything inside me falls silent.

“I’m stunned you remembered,” he says earnestly. “It’s very thoughtful. Thank you.”

“It’s just chicken,” blurts out of me like a reflex, and I wince, kicking myself. “I mean… I’m sorry, I just mean?—”

“It’s okay.” He chuckles and color warms his cheeks. “I understand what you mean.”

Anyone would think he’d never had a warm, home-cooked Thanksgiving before.

Given what I know of him and his story about his father, maybe he hasn’t.

It’s as if a disconnect exists in his life between him and his family.

It’s a quiet part of the reason I worked so hard today to make everything perfect.

That and to thank him.

I have a real chance of securing the bakery and ending my family’s troubles.

All thanks to Kairo.

We eat and talk like we’ve known each other for years.

Dad shares a tale of how close he came to losing his thumb on a stubborn turkey one year.

Mom laughs about bringing a date to Thanksgiving one year in her teens, and the argument that erupted between her and her father is why she can never eat sprouts again.

Martin stuffs his face, constantly complimenting the food and revealing that he hasn’t had a real Thanksgiving meal since his sister passed away some eight years ago.

It didn’t seem right without her, but he’s realizing what he missed.

Even Kairo shares tales of Thanksgiving, but as warmly as he speaks, it becomes clear that I was right.

His mother orchestrates his Thanksgivings.

A dinner to make deals and trick people into agreements they wouldn’t make without the merriment of the season.

While Kairo tells stories of dancing and laughter and chefs cooking around the clock, his stories lack what exists in everyone else’s.

Love.

For a man so tender and comforting, he seems denied basic familial affection.

He lights up at the dinner table when he talks about gardening with my father, and he eagerly listens to my mother’s explanations on how she cooked things a certain way.

Even Martin joins in the laughter.

It’s the noisiest and warmest this house has been in years.

Throughout the entire meal, Kairo keeps one hand resting on the table next to mine and he only moves it to take a drink.

He doesn’t touch, but the soft invitation is there along with the comfort of his presence, and it’s difficult not to think about our kiss.

In truth, I’ve been thinking about it ever since he arrived looking beautiful in that shirt.

“I’m stuffed.” Martin sags back in his seat with a groan. “I can’t eat another bite.”