Page 41 of Honeyed

“Do I finally get to call you Ma?” I half-joke.

She sniffles as she pulls back. “It would be an honor. Oh gosh, you have me sobbing and I need to get the burgers on.”

“What can I help with?” I offer, knowing there is always something to do for these dinners.

Since we eat Italian food entirely too often, the Ashton kids insist that Sunday dinner be a rotating menu that doesn’t include any of the fare from Hope Pizza. Tonight is a barbecue, all-American menu to usher in summer, and I am looking forward to Nonna’s famous baked beans with bacon bits.

“Lots of corn to be shucked in there, go help your wife.” She smirks, giving me a little wink.

I say hi to Liam, Cass, and Patrick as I pass the dining room where they’re setting out condiments and silverware, then enter the kitchen I’ve had meals in a thousand times.

I’ve been to the Ashton family house for Sunday dinner more times than I can count. Holidays, regular summer barbecues, you name it, and I’ve been on the list. Coming here at the beginning of each new week is a sacred tradition, and I am always welcomed with open arms.

Until, of course, I married the crown and only princess of the bunch, and her father stopped talking to both of us.

It’s been two months since either Alana or I have spoken more than one word to her father, and Thomas has actively ignored both of us. Every time it happens, which is almost daily considering I work for the man, another part of my “good pseudo-adopted son” image dies inside me.

This is the man I looked up to since I was eleven years old. He’s my role model, the kind of father and husband I’ve always dreamed of being. Thomas gave me life and career advice when I had no one to turn to, taking me under his wing like I was one of his sons.

To have him so ashamed and disappointed in my actions, so angry with me, that he hasn’t spoken to me in multiple weeks? It’s crushing.

“If you tell me that you’d rather watch Salt Lake housewives over New Jersey one more time …” Alana grumbles, shooting daggers at Evan, who is stirring something at the stove.

He guffaws. “How can you even say it? They have Sundance! Do you know how many cool catering events happen there?”

“So, per usual, you’re only watching reality TV for the food.” My wife rolls her eyes.

“I mean, it’s a miracle if I’m switching from anything on the culinary channels. Ultimate Chef? Yeah, I’m going to need that spoon fed to me every day. Hope to compete on it one day.”

“Somehow, I think that would actually happen.” I chuckle as I step next to Alana and grab an ear of corn.

“I’d root against you. We don’t need your ego to be any bigger.” Al sticks her tongue out at him.

“Guess I won’t take you on the winner’s vacation, all expenses paid, because usually families can accompany.” Her youngest brother throws down the gauntlet.

“On second thought, tell me who to call to secure you that prize.” Then she stage-whispers to me, “We don’t ever pass up a vacation, do we?”

My smile splits my face. “Especially not one on Evan’s dime.”

Everyone begins piling into the kitchen to take dishes to the dining room table, and out of nowhere, my father-in-law appears, ambushing me.

“Warren, a word.” Thomas stands, and every single pair of eyes lands on me.

Great, we’re really going to do this. Here we fucking go. “Of course, sir.”

Patrick snorts across the room at my use of the word, as if my paying his father respect is laughable. Probably because I haven’t called Thomas Ashton “sir” in nearly ten years. Considering I’m married to his daughter now and did so behind his back, I would be remiss not to start brown-nosing a little bit.

Without a backward glance, he makes his way out onto the porch. The sun has dipped below the tree line, painting the spectacular Ashton land in shadows. While the cover is still on the mosaic-tiled pool, I know it’s only a matter of time before one of the sons comes over here to open and shock treat it.

Fields of produce stretch as far as the eye can see, and in the small-ish barn are the cows Liam keeps to provide specialty milk and cheese for the restaurant. It’s a smaller operation than most farms in rural Pennsylvania, but they’re only supplying one store—their own.

My heart beats wildly as I come to stand next to Thomas Ashton, who shoves his hands in his pockets as he looks out at the land he’s owned for decades.

“Do you remember the conversation I had with you, right in this very spot, years ago?”

Dread sits heavy in my stomach because, of course, he’s going to bring this up. And, of course, I remember it. That discussion changed the trajectory of my life. It’s held me back but also brought me to terms with reality.

“You told me not to get involved with her. Not to pursue her. You told me that if it ended badly, things with this family would get complicated. You said that if I couldn’t be sure it was her, that if I didn’t yet know myself, I shouldn’t go there. That I should focus on finding out who I truly was and what I wanted before I asked us to commit to each other.”

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