Her parents. Her overprotective, opinionated, butt-into-your-business parents, were here in Michigan. She glanced over her shoulder at Matt and there went her damn stomach again. He flashed her a quick smile but she ignored it and eyed up the case of wine in his arms. How many bottles were in that case? Six? Eight? Twelve?
Tucker chuckled and pulled her along. “Don’t worry, sis. Dad’s already warned Mom to be on her best behavior.”
“Well that’s good to know.”
“Of course she only listens to Dad when she wants to. So it’s a fifty-fifty shot deal.”
Okay. One case of wine and an entire evening with her family. No way was that enough alcohol to go around. No way in hell.
14
Dinner was a loud, boisterous affair—not unexpected with all three Barker girls in attendance. And when you tossed in the extended Simon family, it went on for hours.
Herschel Barker’s kitchen skills were legendary around these parts and the meal he orchestrated was a testament to that fact. Dressed in the same white coveralls he’d owned for at least ten years, he took command of the kitchen and barked out orders that his granddaughters were only too happy to follow. Smoked racks of pork and beef covered in a sauce that was a secret family recipe, made for a one-of-a-kind meal and the best damn ribs Matt had ever tasted.
He hid a smile as Herschel called out to one of his ‘twins’ to grab him a shot of Jägermeister. After a bit of back and forth, he was awarded his one and only shot of the night. Some might consider that a loss, but it was enough to keep the old guy happy and animated well into the evening.
Twins. As long as Matt could remember Herschel had called his triplets that. It was just one more thing that made them a family. One more thing that made them unique. Connected.
He was glad that Betty had found her way back. Because as he watched her settled on her husband Beau’s lap, their son Fitz playing with his cars at their feet, he knew she’d found her slice of happy.
And if anyone deserved it, Betty sure as hell did.
As it had many times over the last few hours, his gaze was drawn to one particular brunette. Grace was deep in conversation with her father, something to do with a chef, a gala, and a menu that sucked. Matt nursed his scotch and watched her. The girl was a hand-talker. She was about as animated as you could get and he loved that her father had just taken a step back, as if worried she might let a fist fly.
She could hold her own with anyone.
His gaze swung to her brother, Tucker. He didn’t get that about his sister. Oh, he’d been polite enough, but Matt knew the guy was worried about him and his sister. Probably thought he wasn’t good enough for Grace.
Matt finished his scotch and set the empty glass on the table beside him. If he was Tucker Simon, he’d probably feel the same so he couldn’t fault the guy for being a bit of a dick. He stood and glanced around the room, taking in the myriad conversations, the loving touches, the secretive looks, and the shared jokes. These people loved each other fiercely, in a way he’d never experienced. His family life had been hell.
He glanced back at Grace and wondered what that would feel like—to have someone know what you were going to say before you thought it. Or as Betty had said, to have someone willing to die for you.
Startled at his train of thoughts, Matt gave himself a mental shake. The Bark
ers and the Simons were too damn loud. Too damn happy. A guy like him could only take so much.
He slipped out of the front room and headed toward the back porch, grabbing his jacket from the front hall along the way. The wind had died down and the night sky was full of stars. He leaned against the railing, shoved his hands into his coat pockets, and enjoyed the view and the quiet. Nothing like looking up at a big sky to make a person feel small. To make a person remember another night sky, and another porch, and a night when everything changed.
MATT WAS GOOD AND DRUNK. Didn’t take much for a skinny thirteen-year-old. He’d pinched a mickey of cherry whiskey from his dad’s cabinet and was flying high by the time it was half gone.
He tipped the bottle back and took another long pull. The stuff tasted like shit and burned when it went down, but it did the trick. It helped Matt deal with the fact that his mother was gone and she wasn’t coming back. That this, his first Thanksgiving without her, was the new norm.
He still couldn’t believe she’d left. Still couldn’t take the bullshit line she’d given him when he’d begged her to take him with her. A boy needs to be with his father, she’d said. Besides, she’d be doing a lot of traveling and he needed stability. He needed school. He needed to stay in New Waterford.
She’d left nearly two months earlier and she’d called him twice.
Tears stung the corners of his eyes as he searched his pockets for the pack of smokes he’d stolen from his uncle Brad. Shit. They were done. He tossed the pack over the edge of the porch and then the bottle along with it. No sense poking the bear. If his father caught him out here smoking and drinking, he’d get the belt for sure.
The door to the porch swung open and Matt straightened, hoping he looked a lot more sober than he felt.
“Hey there handsome. Your father’s looking for you.”
Matt nearly choked on the resentment that filled his throat. Delilah Parsons. He’d like to know why the hell his father had invited her to Thanksgiving dinner at Uncle Brad’s. But he knew, didn’t he? His dad was screwing this woman. Had been screwing this woman while his mom was still around.
“Whatever,” Matt replied gruffly. “I’m going home.”
The woman licked her lips, making them shiny and wet looking. When she walked toward him, her hips swayed a little too much, and well, Matt couldn’t help but notice that her nipples were hard. How could you not? She was wearing the tightest sweater on the planet.