Chapter 12

Lucas

I grit my teeth when the alarm clock blares, because I’m still suffering from jet lag and the press conferences were filled with “No comments” and now it’s fucking Thanksgiving.

My goddamn parents will be coming into town. James is already here, in the downstairs guestroom. And Astrid, oh, god, Astrid. She hasn’t met Maggie yet. She’ll be meeting her for the first time. Her head will explode. She’s fantastically jealous of anything that a man looks at, much less a genuine girl-next-door pin-up piece like Maggie Marshall.

I heave myself out of bed and trudge into the hall and the stairwell, finding Maggie drifting back and forth between a large bowl and a carton of eggs. She’s in a long white robe, wrinkled with deep sleep. Her eyes are listless.

“Maggie,” I call to her, but it doesn’t rouse her from her trance. She cracks an egg on the lip of her bowl and dumps it in. “Maggie,” I repeat. She trashes the shell and plucks another, cracking it. “Maggie!”

I’m already stalking across the kitchen and almost alarmed by the time her sleepy gaze swings to me. “Hey,” she answers.

“Didn’t you hear me?”

Maggie swallows. “I was up in my own head,” she answers. “Good morning.”

“What are you doing down here this early?”

“Custard,” she answers in a blithe, hypnotized voice. “For the tart. You said your mom loves tarts.”

I smile and take Maggie by the arms. “Hey,” I say to her. “Why don’t you go lay down?”

Her eyes tilt over me seductively and she grins, lightly biting the tip of her tongue. “Make me,” she purrs up at me.

I pull in a deep breath and reply, “Not today, Satan.”

Maggie’s gaze follows me in wounded surprise. I open the fridge and scavenge for the carrots and the celery. “No one can see us,” she reminds me from behind, timid again.

My heart aches for her, but I shove it away, simultaneously closing the fridge and grabbing a bag of potatoes with my free hand. I haul it onto the island, and I don’t look at Maggie. I can’t. It’s not worth the risk.

“Look,” I tell her, keeping my voice firm and harsh. I have to. This is my family. We can’t play games with it. “Today is Thanksgiving. Astrid has a nose for fucking pheromones like a bloodhound, so don’t you even look at me. My parents know me front and back, too.” I look at her meaningfully, desperate to impart this message. “We have to be adults, Maggie. This isn’t fun. It’s bad.”

Maggie swallows and nods. “Right,” she rasps. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”

I want to apologize to her for even saying it, but I can’t. It needed to be said. I cut the vegetables while she whips eggs and milk together in a hot, frothy pot. We let the droning melody of cooking occupy us and barely speak, even after the sun has risen and James comes shambling upstairs from the finished basement slash guest room and game room, then makes a running commentary on our hard-working skills while we’re trying to focus through splitting headaches. She feels the same acute misery I do. It’s in her eyes.

“Oh, god, I’ve never seen a woman so recklessly destined for fatness,” James notes, following Maggie with his eyes. For the millionth time, I hold back the urge to snap at him. “You’re like our mom, Maggie!” She laughs tiredly and says she’s afraid to ask, and retorts boil in my throat. “Kindest eyes on the planet, one hundred percent diabetic. I mean, she likes it rich, God bless her. She’s a people-pleaser.”

“You don’t know me very well,” Maggie replies.

I clutch the pan of green beans tighter because James is looking at me, grinning, so carefree, with all of thirty-four years and zero kids beneath his belt, with nothing to lose but more time. I almost envy him. I have so much to lose.

“You know what else?” James announces gleefully, speaking entirely too loud. “You’re a lot like Dad, Lucas. You know, he takes all the big dishes, because he’s a control freak, and Mom is over on the sidelines, making nice little turkey-themed cupcakes. You’re a crotchety old man, Lucas, just like Dad, and here Maggie is, so wifey—”

“Quiet, James,” I bark, whipping around and pointing a slimy, olive oil-coated finger at him. The smile drops off my brother’s face. “You have no idea what you’re talking about, so just. Shut. Up.”

James straightens himself and clears his throat. “Just joking around,” he mumbles, then scoots off his stool. “I’m going to go check on Madison.”

“Finally,” I grumble.

I glare down at my pot of green beans and keep rolling them in the oil, salt, pepper, and lemon mixture.

He is oblivious to how difficult this is.

It’s not just the turkey browning and the five burns I have on my arms already and that we’re out of butter now and Madison has gotten into Christ knows what, because James still doesn’t comprehend how to watch a child. It’s our parents coming into fucking town while my business takes a two-million-dollar-hit this week while my manic-depressive ex-wife comes barreling closer and closer like a comet that’s going to wipe out all life on the planet. The only difference is that my kids will witness this apocalypse, and they’ll survive it, and they;ll just carry the goddamn scars.

My jaw works overtime as I thread my oily fingers through the green beans, not noticing how the pot is heating up around them.

I have to introduce unpredictable Astrid to the dewy, husky-voiced nanny with the blond curls, the one who I definitely didn’t fuck against the sink on her second night in the house. The one who promised me at five this morning that she would not flirt with me today. Not even a look of longing. Nothing.

My heart pounds as I toss the hot green beans with my bare hands, lost in thought.

Because it doesn’t even matter. Astrid is psychotically jealous. She would jump to needlessly sexual conclusions about me with any nanny, so I’m fucked no matter what.

“Baby,” Maggie gasps, gripping my forearms and pulling my bright pink fingers from the pot.

“They sting, but they’ll be all right. I’m just –” I pause and fix her harder with my gaze. “What did you just call me?”

“No,” Maggie says. “I said ‘hey, hey.’ Not ‘baby.’”

There’s a thunking knock at the door, and James gets to it first. I recognize that knock as belonging to my old man, and my parents pour into the foyer, all loud greetings and wide embraces. “Are you really going to tell me that you’re making money as a model right now?” Dad demands of James, and I grin. Dad and I are a lot alike.

“Love you, too, Dad, ow.” James winces.

Dad insists that Madison must be the fattest piggy in kindergarten, and Mom dotes on Charlie’s new haircut and how tall he’s getting—which is her way of boosting his confidence, because he hasn’t hit his growth spurt yet—and then they swap and do it all again.

“And where’s the host with the most?” Mom calls out, even though her eyes have already fixed on me. I don’t see any resemblance with Maggie at all. Mom is round and shiny, a loud and buxom blonde in her fifties. I don’t see it.

But Mom sees Maggie, immediately. “And you must be Maggie,” she breathes like she’s taking to a baby bird. I wince as Mom drags Maggie into a bone-crushing hug. “We’ve heard so much about you, and I want to say thank you, dear, for helping my baby boy –”

“Who is thirty-seven,” I interject.

“– stay on top of things.”

“Absolutely,” Maggie says. “It’s lovely to meet you.”

Dad, James, and the kids all follow Mom into the kitchen, and Dad gets introduced to Maggie, too. As always, he gives much less away, but the sparkle in my mother’s eyes tells me I have to figure out my strategy for when she inevitably corners me after dinner.

The doorbell rings, a bright but grating jingle.

Shit.

It’s Astrid.

No one goes to open the door, even though James was on it last time. I thread through the now-crowded kitchen and throw it wide. After all, I’m her former husband. I’m the person here best equipped to deal with her ways.

Astrid beams at me expectantly, absolutely swaddled in mink furs and so made-up that I don’t see a cubic inch of unpainted skin on her face or neck. Her hair is dramatically curled and falls thick on her shoulders. “Happy Thanksgiving,” she cheers, sauntering into the foyer with a quick kiss to my cheek. “Oh, my babies.” The kids rush forward for hugs. She brands them with her red lips as well. “Pat and Michael,” she says, quickly hugging both my parents. Then she twists to my brother. “James,” she drawls, going to him next. He jerks away from her red lips and she smiles, almost in a sneer, at him.

Finally, she lets her eyes settle on Maggie, though I’m sure she saw her as soon as she opened the door. But now she has to confront the beautiful woman in the room. For the first time, I wish Maggie didn’t look so damn good all the time.

“I didn’t know you had a new girlfriend, James,” she guesses, already sounding manic.

“I told you I was getting a nanny,” I remind Astrid from the hallway, crossing into the kitchen. “You knew that.”

“She’s your new nanny?”