Page 164 of Holidating
When Nicolette glances over her shoulder, something in her heart gives way. The baby has hair the color of a darkened penny and a firm grip on Damien’s finger.
See? She’s not alone in thinking that Damien is easy company. Both she and the baby seem to grasp this on a gut level.
His family, though… “Are you sure I won’t be imposing?”
He chuckles. “No such thing. My mom is the kind of person who cooks twice as much food as necessary, every time, hoping someone extra turns up to justify her efforts. You’ll see.”
It’s not the food she’s really worried about, though. She probably looks like something the cat dragged in. The combination of her messy divorce, her father’s anger, and too little sleep has put darkcircles beneath her eyes. And she’s wearing her most faded jeans with an old wool fisherman’s sweater that had belonged to her grandfather.
What will they think?
The Jeep climbs the hill into central Colebury. A moment later, Damien slows to a stop in front of a Tudor home on the town square. “Nice house,” she whispers.
“My sister’s partner played professional hockey. They do pretty well.” He retracts his hand from the back and puts the car in park.
The baby squawks, which seems to put Damien into a higher gear. He hops out of the Jeep and rounds the vehicle to pop open the back door first, clucking at the frustrated baby. He unsnaps him from the carrier and lifts him out. “See?” he says, holding him to his chest. “We’re back. No need to shout.”
The baby looks up at him with wide brown eyes. Then he rests a trusting cheek against Damien’s flannel and curls his little fingers into the fabric.
Now she’s jealous of a baby, because she knows how comfortable it is right there on Damien’s shoulder. “Let me carry the baby seat,” she says, climbing out of the Jeep.
“I got it,” he says, easily grasping it in his free hand and hip-checking the door shut. “Let’s go have some mashed potatoes.”
“Does he eat solid food yet?” she asks.
“I don’t even know,” he says, giving her a smile over the infant’s head. “I was talking about me.”
She laughs as he opens the front door into a gracious entryway with views into a comfortable living room. The clink of dishes and the sound of conversation wafts through from a dining room just out of view.
“I’ll take your coat,” he says. And then, in a louder voice, he calls out to his family. “We’re back! I brought a friend.”
A sudden silence in the other room makes Nicolette’s stomach bottom out. “Maybe I shouldn’t…”
In one smooth move, Damien sets down the baby carrier, drops her coat onto a hook and takes her hand. “Guys, this is Nicolette. Let’s find one more chair.”
He guides her into the dining room, where at least ten people arecrowded around a big table. She can feel the flush creep up on her face. They’ve left an open chair for Damien, but just barely.
She shouldn’t have come.
Several people stand up at once, and everyone starts talking. A hot redheaded guy scoops the baby out of Damien’s arms. “How’s my little man?”
“I’ll find another chair,” says Zara.
“No, don’t,” says another tall, good-looking man from the other end of the room. And she recognizes him from the Gin Mill. He must be Alec, the brother who owns the bar. “I’m supposed to be at the Shipleys’ in a half hour for their Thanksgiving,” he says.
“You double-dipper,” chides an older woman who must be Damien’s mom.
“Don’t hate the player, hate the game,” Alec says, picking up his plate and water glass. “You’re just jealous. Take my seat, Nicolette.” He points at the chair. “It’s right next to Damien’s. I’ll grab you a fresh plate.”
She flushes a little deeper, but Damien guides her around the table, unconcerned, and pulls out her chair. So she sits.
“This is most of my family,” he says. Then he rattles off a string of names as he gestures around the table. “And this is Nicolette,” he says, reaching for the water jug and pouring her a glass. “Be nice to her because you all are alot.”
“Hi, Nicolette!” they all say at once.
She laughs nervously. “Hi. Wow. When I was a kid, I always wanted a big family.”
“But now she knows better,” somebody mumbles.
