Adoring him, she drilled him playfully in the belly, then sobered. “I’m happy for you, Daddy. For both of you, that you have each other. You know Tommy would be happy, too, that Justine has you, and you have her.”
“We’re just . . .”
“It doesn’t matter. What matters is having each other. Drink your coffee.”
“Yes, ma’am.” He took the first sip. “Never tastes as good when I make it.”
“You’re kitchen challenged, Dad. It’s a curse.”
“It sure missed you. I like seeing you in here, baby. You were always a natural cook. And now you’re going to have
“
“You’re a dynasty.”
She laughed as she ladled batter on the hot griddle. “A tiny one, but I’m pretty excited. It’ll be a while, but I need a while to finish planning it out.”
“Justine’s excited, too, and real pleased it’s you moving in there. She sets a lot of store by you.”
“As I do with her, with all of them. Wasn’t it great being at Clare’s last night?” Happy as Christmas morning, she flipped the pancakes. “Seeing everybody there, seeing how the kids are with Beckett, with all of them. All that noise and sweetness and . . . family.”
As she looked over at her father, her smile went wistful. “You wanted a big family.”
“I’ve got the best family any man could have, right here in the kitchen.”
“Me, too. But I wanted to say, I know you wanted lots of kids, and you’d have been great with a big family— just as great as you were with just me.”
“What do
“It looks like I want two restaurants.”
Willy B cleared his throat. “And Owen.”
She flipped the pancakes onto a platter, glanced over her shoulder. As she suspected, her big guy blushed. “It looks like I want him, too. You’re all right with that?”
“He’s a good boy—man. You always had an eye for him.”
“Dad, I was five. I didn’t know what having an eye meant.”
“I wouldn’t be so sure. I just . . . you let me know if he doesn’t treat you right.”
“And you’ll crush him like a worm.”
Putting on a fierce scowl, Willy B flexed his considerable biceps. “If I have to.”
“I’ll keep it in mind.” She turned with the platter of steaming pancakes. “Let’s eat so we can go rip into those presents.”
It wouldn’t be Christmas to Avery’s mind without a crowd in the kitchen. She’d always appreciated Justine for opening her house, and the big kitchen in it, to her, to her father. And this year with the addition of Clare and the kids, Clare’s parents, and Hope, crowds milled everywhere.
And kids, she mused. Clare’s boys, Carolee’s two granddaughters. Squeeze in Justine’s two dogs—who managed to do just that as often as possible—Ryder’s D.A., and the two puppies, and Christmas was, to Avery, as perfect as it got.
She loved her one-on-one time with her father, but this—the noise, the overstimulated kids, the excited dogs, the smell of ham baking, sauces simmering, pies cooling—plucked a chord deep inside her.
She wanted this, had always wanted this, for herself. For her own.
She stopped mincing garlic long enough to take the glass of wine Owen offered her.
“You look happy.”
“If you’re not happy on Christmas, when?”
Curious, he peered into the mixing bowl beside her. “Smells good.”
“It’ll taste better when it’s inside the mushroom caps and baked.”
“Stuffed mushrooms, huh? Maybe you can make some of those for next week.”
She took another sip of wine, set down the glass, and went back to mincing. “I could do that.”
“How about those little meatballs you do sometimes?”
“Cocktail meatballs.”
“Yeah, those.”
“It’s possible.”
“I tapped Mom for a ham, thought I’d slice it up for sandwiches, maybe get a couple of party platters of cheese and dipping vegetables, like that. And—”
“Don’t get platters. Just get the stuff. I’ll show you how to tray it.”
He’d hoped she’d say that. “Okay. If you give me a list of what you need for the other stuff, I’ll pick it up.” D.A. snuck up, sat delicately on her foot to get her attention. Avery gave him as solemn a look as he gave her.
“You don’t want this,” she assured him.
She heard wild laughter—Harry’s?—roll up from the lower-level family room. “I’m number
“Wii.” Owen shook his head with mock sorrow. “Brings out the best or the worst in us.”
“What are they playing?”
“Boxing when I walked up.”
“I can take the kid in that. I can take him.” She looked over where Clare layered a huge casserole for scalloped potatoes. “I’m taking your firstborn to the mat. It’s going to be a KO. I’ll show him no mercy.”
“He’s sneaky, and he’s been practicing.”
Avery flexed her biceps much as her father had that morning. “Small, but mighty.”
“He hits below the belt,” Ryder snarled as he came through. “You’re raising a ball-puncher,” he said to Clare.
“Beat you?”
“In three rounds—but he cheats.” Ryder opened the fridge for a beer, frowned. “What’s this fancy deal in here?”
“Trifle.” Hope reached around him, took out a vegetable crudités.
“A trifle of what? Looks pretty big to me.”
“It’s a dessert, a double chocolate trifle. Here, you can take this downstairs.”
He gave it the same suspicious sneer he’d given the trifle. “Kids don’t want carrots and celery and crap. They want chips—and the runt likes salsa. Hotter the better.”
“They’re having carrots and celery and crap,” Clare told him. “And Murphy’s not having hot salsa and taco chips before dinner.”
“Neither are you.” Justine didn’t spare him a glance as she checked her ham. “Owen, grab those pot holders and take this out for me. It’s heavy. Clare, the oven’s yours.”
“How soon do we eat actual food?” Ryder qualified.
“About an hour and a half.”
“We’re men. Boxing, skiing, alien-fighting, football-playing, race car–driving men. We need real food now.”
“Appetizers in thirty,” Avery called out and snagged his attention.
“You making some of the stuff you make?”
“I am.”
“Okay.” He took the tray, his beer, started back downstairs. “Why do they call it trifle when it’s big?”
“I’ll look that up,” Hope promised.
“Do that. Come on, Dumbass. This is all we’re going to get.”
A little mournfully, the dog followed Ryder down where Harry’s latest cheer burst out. “Still number one!”
“All right, taking five.” Avery pulled off her bib apron, tossed it aside. “Somebody needs a spanking.” After rolling her shoulders, she marched downstairs.
And marched back up five minutes later with Harry’s catcalls ringing behind her. “He beat the crap out of me.”
She paused for a moment, scanned the kitchen, the women, the movements, heard her father’s big belly
