Page 109 of Almost Ours
“Thank God,” Nina said, breaking the tension as she dramatically clutched her stomach. “I was about to raid the pantry and start eating crackers.”
Ryan smirked, but his gaze flicked back to me as I pulled out the food. I busied myself with opening containers, avoiding the weight of his concern.
We all gathered around the table, the scent of turkey and mashed potatoes filling the air as plates were passed around. Connor chattered away, his voice full of excitement as he recounted every detail of the snowball fight. His laughter was light, easy–so blissfully unaware of the storm brewing beneath my skin.
Across the table, Ryan’s eyes found mine more than once, the concern still there, just beneath the surface.
I tried to act normal. I smiled, I laughed, I contributed to the conversation when necessary. But my mind kept drifting back to that email, to the words that had yanked me out of the safety I’d built here.
After dinner, as I stood in the kitchen cleaning up, I found myself staring out the window. The snow-covered yard stretched before me, footprints crisscrossing the fresh powder. In thedistance, the boys’ snow forts stood under the moonlight, their shapes softened by the night.
I could still hear Connor's laughter in my ears. I could still feel the warmth of the dinner table, of Ryan's quiet protectiveness, of Nina's unwavering support.
And Reid wanted to take that away from us.
My fingers tightened around the dish towel in my hands. I should tell Ryan. The thought whispered in the back of my mind, insistent, reasonable. He’d listen. He’d understand. He wouldn’t judge me. But that didn’t stop the fear from creeping in.
What if he started seeing me differently? What if, after everything, I’d finally let myself relax around him, only to have that shift? What if instead of the woman he laughed with, stole glances at across the dinner table, he started seeing me as someone fragile? Someone broken?
I didn’t want that.
The guilt curled in my stomach like something rotten.
I would tell Ryan. Eventually.
Tonight, I just wanted to hold onto the warmth, to pretend–just for a little while longer–that this bubble of safety and laughter wasn’t so fragile.
The shrill wailof the smoke detector cut through the laughter and clatter of mixing bowls, bouncing off the kitchen walls like an air raid siren.
Cold air from the open windows swept through the house, carrying with it the scent of burning sugar and flour. The oven door hung wide, heat curling into the room and fogging the edges of the frosted window above the sink. Outside, snow clung stubbornly to the bare branches, the pale winter light filtering in like it had better things to do.
Connor darted from the kitchen to the living room, his socks sliding dangerously on the hardwood as he flung the front door open. A gust of icy wind rushed in, scattering the smell of char into the rest of the house.
Ryan stood balanced on one of my kitchen chairs, tea towel in hand, swiping at the smoke detector like it was a particularly aggressive mosquito.
We were all trying to talk at once–me from the counter, Connor from the doorway, Ryan from above by head–but the smoke detector’s relentless screech drowned it all out.
Finally–blessedly–the noise cut off. Silence fell, broken only by the faint ticking of the oven cooling down.
Ryan hopped down from the chair, the ends of his dark hair falling over his blue eyes as he tossed the tea towel onto the counter with a smirk. “Well, at least we know the smoke detector works?”
I pressed the heel of my palm to my forehead, fighting a laugh. “Fantastic. I was worried about that.”
“Uh… Mom?” Connor’s voice came from beside the oven. He peered inside with the kind of guilty look that made my stomach brace. “The pages were stuck together. They were only supposed to be in for ten minutes… not… thirty.”
That did it. I burst out laughing. “Of course they were.”
Ryan shook his head, chuckling as Connor pulled out a tray of what could only generously be called cookies–blackened at the edges, flattened to paper-thin discs, and smelling faintly of campfire.
This had been our rhythm lately. Weekends we weren’t at the arena meant Ryan showing up at my house, ready to be one of my “professional taste testers” alongside Connor. I’d bake, they’d hover–offering highly unqualified critiques while demolishing whatever I set in front of them. Connor liked to act like he was learning the trade, but really, his and Ryan’s “help” was equal parts enthusiasm and chaos.
I’d never pictured myself as a baker. But somewhere along the way, I realized how much I enjoyed it–the precision, the creativity, the satisfaction of pulling something golden and fragrant from the oven. With Benny’s guidance–and his endless stash of sarcastic commentary–I’d gotten better. Actually good, if his praise–and the way the scones sold out most mornings–was anything to go by.
And the raise that came with the job? That was just the cherry on top. A reminder that this thing I’d stumbled intowasn’t just filling hours–it was becoming something I could really own.
I’d been experimenting–muffins, scones, cookies–trying out new recipes now that he’d hired another part-time barista and I could spend more time in the back, baking unless they needed an extra hand up front.
“Alright,” Ryan said, reaching for the ruined cookies, “we’re calling this batch a learning experience.”
