Page 65 of Checking It Twice
“Thanks,” I murmur, accepting the perfectly doctored coffee.
“Anytime.”
The casual gesture shouldn’t mean as much as it does. But watching him move around his mother’s kitchen, adjusting my chair when I sit down, making sure I get the last cinnamon roll before his brother devours them—it’s these small acts of care that are doing dangerous things to my carefully guarded heart.
“You two are up early,” Karen observes, bustling around the kitchen with the focused energy of someone orchestrating a major production.
“Couldn’t sleep,” Mitch says easily, settling into the chair beside me. Under the table, his knee brushes mine, and the simple contact sends heat racing up my thigh.
“Christmas Eve excitement,” I add, which isn’t entirely a lie.
Maddie appears in the doorway, looking like she hasn’t slept much either, but for entirely different reasons. Pregnancy insomnia, according to her dramatic sighing.
“Please tell me there’s coffee,” she says, making grabby hands toward the pot.
“Decaf only,” Karen says firmly. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Decaf isn’t coffee. Decaf is a cruel joke played on pregnant women.” But Maddie accepts the mug anyway, settling into the chair across from me with a grateful sigh. “So, Clare, how’d you sleep? That bed’s not exactly built for two people.”
Heat crawls up my neck, and I catch Mitch fighting a smirk out of the corner of my eye.
“Fine,” I manage. “Cozy, but fine.”
“Cozy,” Mitch repeats under his breath, just loud enough for me to hear. “That’s one word for it.”
I kick him under the table, causing his grin to widen.
The morning passes with a comfortable chaos I’m starting to recognize as peak Drake family energy. Plans are made, revised, and made again. Tom disappears to shovel the driveway, muttering about the weather forecast. Karen creates detailed schedules that no one will follow, but everyone pretends to take seriously.
Through it all, Mitch stays close. Not obviously, not in a way that screams “we fooled around last night,” but in small gestures that feel significant. His hand on my lower back when he passes behind my chair. The way he automatically refills my coffee mug before his own. How he steers the conversation away when Grandma June starts asking pointed questions about our “relationship timeline.”
It’s protective. Thoughtful. The kind of attention that could make a girl forget why keeping things professional was ever important.
“What’s the plan for today?” I ask, accepting my second cup of perfectly prepared coffee.
“Ice skating this afternoon,” Karen announces. “Then dinner prep, then church if anyone wants to come.”
“The pond should be perfect,” Evan adds, appearing with his kids in tow. “Froze solid this week.”
Sophie bounces over to me, still in her Christmas pajamas, her hair a disaster zone that somehow manages to be adorable.
“Aunt Clare, do you know how to ice skate?”
The casual “Aunt Clare” still hits me in the chest every time. “Not really, sweetheart.”
“Uncle Mitch can teach you! He’s the best skater in the whole world!”
“I don’t know about the whole world,” Mitch says modestly, but I catch the pleased expression on his face.
“He is though,” Sophie insists. “He can skate backwards and do spins and everything.”
“Sounds like I’ll be in good hands then.”
Across the table, Mitch’s eyes catch mine—steady, intent—and my pulse jumps. “The best hands.”
The promise in those two words sends heat spiraling through me, and I have to look away before I do something stupid like climb into his lap right here at his family’s breakfast table.
This is dangerous territory we’re navigating. Not just the physical attraction—that I could handle. It’s the way he makes me feel like I belong here, like being part of this chaotic, loving family is something I could have permanently instead of just for a weekend.
