Page 20 of Under Pressure

Walt and Harry simultaneously cleared their throats, drawing attention.

But it wasn’t enough to keep Samantha from shooting a glare at Johnny as she faced Sean. “How are you holding up?”

Sean swiped an eclair off the table and shoved half of it in his mouth. “Just keep the baked goods coming,” he said in a gruff voice.

Samantha gave an understanding nod and took a seat at the table. Don loved that she was already practically part of the family. She and Sean had become good friends over the last year since Sean had come home. Don had played a relationship between the two over in his head about a hundred times, but he just wasn’t sure . . . They liked each other well enough, but Don could remember what a love-sick-Sean looked and acted like, and he was not like that with Samantha.

“Are all these for the wake?” Nancy asked, making a sweeping gesture with her hand to encompass the kitchen as a whole.

Don glanced around. “Should I make more? I don’t want to run out.” Since Amelia’s passing three days ago, Don had painstakingly gathered all Amelia’s recipes, called all of his kids and grandkids, and asked for their favorites. He still couldn’t believe that not one of them had said the same thing.

“No chance of that,” Walt said.

Winnie lowered her voice. “You called an emergency meeting?”

Johnny quirked a brow at that as Sean stepped forward and grabbed a piece of banana bread.

Don leveled a look at him. “Stop stuffing yourself, son. You’ve already eaten enough to fill one of your legs.”

“Where are the cream puffs, Gramps?” Sean said, chomping down on the banana bread like he hadn’t heard a word Don had just said.

“I didn’t make any.” Intentionally. Since Sean was a boy, he tended to eat and eat and eat whenever he was stressed. It always amazed Don that he hadn’t looked like the Pillsbury Dough Boy all through high school and college. The Navy had done him and his bottomless pit stomach wonders, teaching him discipline and healthier eating habits. The last time he’d gone food-crazy had been the week before he’d gone into boot camp. The lessons he’d learned as a SEAL seemed to be jumping ship now.

“But they’re my favorite. You made everyone’s favorite.” He marched to a cupboard and yanked it open, pointing to a cake Don had put there earlier.

Axel stepped forward. “Is that coconut angel food cake?”

“Your favorite,” Sean said.

Johnny folded his arms over his chest, and Don could tell he was holding back a grin—though how he managed that and to keep glaring at Samantha, Don couldn’t guess. “And there are fruit tarts in the fridge.”

Sean placed his hands on his hips. “See!”

“All right, you three, out.” Don barked signaling between his grandsons and the back door.

Johnny pulled away from the wall. “What?”

“Grandpa, we want to help you . . . withthe pastries,” Axel said.

Don shook his head. “What do you think my friends are here for?” He marched over to the back door and yanked it open, then made a sweeping gesture with his hand toward them and then out the door.

Axel tightened his jaw, but headed out, head high.

Johnny pointed a finger in Samantha’s direction. “How come she gets to stay?”

Samantha folded her arms over her chest and tapped her black stilettoed toe on the hardwood floor. “I work here, you—” she grumbled something under her breath, darted a glance at Don, and restrained herself from anything more than that. At least one of them had some control. What was with those two?

“Because I asked her to,” Don said. “Now stop your grumbling and get.”

“If she stays, I stay,” Johnny said.

Sean reached for the tray with the eclairs, and Don lurched in his direction.

“Those aren’t for you.” Was Axel the only one who wasn’t going to give him trouble? Seemed so.

Through a mouthful of pastry, Sean said, “Well, they’re the closest thing to cream puffs you’ve got, so . . .” He was the only person Don knew whocouldspeak clearly with his mouth full.

Don picked up two of the eclairs and handed them to him, one for his right hand and one for his left, then he took a third. “Open.”

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