Page 94 of Terms and Traditions

That… would work. And Grey’s spaghetti was to die for.

I spun in his embrace, looping my arms over his broad shoulders. “I love you. Even if you’re just trying to distract me.”

He smirked, nudging our noses. “Is it working?”

I bit my lip. “Maybe. I just…” I dropped my hands to his chest, his skin warm under my touch and smelling divinely like soap. His heart beating in a rhythmic thrum under my palm. That was one of the things I loved best about this man. He was rock-solid steady. And after the life I’d lived, nothing in the world was more attractive than that.

Greyson gently tilted my chin up with his finger. His piercing blue eyes—a shared trait among all the Satterfield offspring along with their all over-six-feet heights—waiting patiently. Encouraging me to open up.

“I hate that he still takes up space in my head after all these years,” I whispered. “I don’t want to think about him. It hurts.”

Greyson pressed an achingly sweet kiss to my forehead. “Then don’t. Tonight, laugh with our friends, forget about him and this… soggy mess.” He reached behind me and flicked off the tap. “And remember you’re loved. Right here.” His lips moved gently over mine as he kissed me, punctuating his words. “Right now.”

This time I was the one urging him closer, but he tugged back with a cocky grin. “We have guests coming, Mrs. Satterfield.”

I groaned. “Rake. Fiend. Rogue.”

“I love your vocabulary.” He laughed and chucked my chin. “Grab the beef. Give me five minutes, and I’ll be back.”

And he was. Together, we assembled the spaghetti, garlic bread, and Caesar salad then chilled out one big baby of a dog. By the time the doorbell rang at six o’clock, the smoky haze ceased to exist, and Greyson’s spaghetti was ready.

Liz and Ben stood on the porch, bearing gifts, and Juliet and Myles climbed out of their truck in the driveway.

“Ooh, spaghetti!” Liz exclaimed, stepping inside and flinging her arms around me.

“Where’s Steph and Nash?” I asked, returning the hug.

Liz laughed. “They’re just behind us. Now where’s that fur baby? Auntie Liz has gifts.” She jiggled a baby-pink gift bag.

“I put her in the laundry room,” Greyson said from behind me. “She still gets too excited when the front door opens.” And as if confirming his words, Rosie’s excited bark from the back of the house proved it.

Juliet trudged up the steps, Myles behind her.

When they stepped out of the shadows into the entryway, I gasped. “Myles! Your face!”

In addition to his usual man bun, he sported a black eye and a three-inch cut across his left cheek, held together with stitches. “It’s not as bad as it looks.”

Juliet scoffed and hung up her coat on the vintage coat stand. “That’s what they all say.”

Myles’s smile was slightly strained, like smiling pulled on the wrong muscles, and I got the sense this was a conversation they’d been arguing for days. “You should see the bruise on my side.”

“They should not.”

Myles grinned at her, brown eyes twinkling with mischief. “Ladies love a man with a scar, Jules.”

“Oh, you have a lot of experience with that?” she countered, blonde eyebrow arched perfectly.

Greyson snickered and punched his brother-in-law’s arm. “Walked right into that one, man.” He hugged his younger sister. “Go easy on him. The man’s injured. For a good cause, too. I saw the game.”

“He’ll live,” Juliet deadpanned and wriggled out of the hug, pushing past him like only a younger sibling could. Not that I’d know since I didn’t have one, but I’d hung around the Satterfields—Juliet, Cal, and Greyson particularly—long enough to have noticed these things.

“Heard that, babe,” Myles called after her. “She took that stick to my face more personally than I did.”

“Wait, hockey!” I said, things clicking in my brain. “We’re having spaghetti. Does that work with your diet? I know you’re not supposed to have high carbs during the on-season.” With it being the middle of the hockey season, Cal and Myles were pretty regimented with how they ate. The original roast dinner with salad and roasted veggies would have been ideal, but would a carb-heavy pasta be too much? I mean, we still had salad, but…

Myles grunted, but reassurance lined his light smile. “It’ll be fine, Pais. I’m not turning down Grey’s spaghetti, no matter what Coach says.”

“Where can I put these?” Ben lifted a plastic container of what looked like pastries.