Page 68 of Checking It Twice
We sit down to a simple lunch—leftover ham, fresh bread, and Karen’s homemade potato salad. Nothing fancy, just family gathered around the dining room table on Christmas Eve, sharing food and stories while snow falls outside the windows.
I’m squeezed between Mitch and his four-year-old nephew Jake, watching the controlled madness unfold around me when I feel Mitch’s hand find mine under the table.
It’s casual, automatic, like he’s not even thinking about it. But the warmth of his palm against mine sends electricity shooting up my arm, and I have to concentrate on not reacting visibly.
“You doing okay?” he murmurs close to my ear, his breath warm against my neck.
I nod, not trusting my voice, because the simple question combined with his proximity is doing things to my nervous system that should probably be illegal in a room full of his relatives.
He’s been like this all morning—attentive in ways that feel too natural to be a performance. Refilling my water glass before I realize it’s empty, pulling out my chair, making sure I’m comfortable.
It’s the kind of quiet care that’s more dangerous than grand gestures because it seeps into your defenses without you noticing until it’s too late.
“Aunt Clare, are you coming sledding with us later?” Sophie asks from across the table, her face smeared with what I hope is jam.
“If your uncle doesn’t mind being shown up by a beginner,” I say, shooting Mitch a challenging look.
“Oh, she’s competitive,” Maddie observes with delight. “I like that in a woman.”
“She’s trouble,” Mitch corrects, his thumb tracing circles on my palm. “Had every guy at Murphy’s last night wrapped around her finger without even trying.”
“I did not—”
“You absolutely did. Poor Tommy still hasn’t recovered.”
I elbow him gently, making him grin wider. This easy back-and-forth, the way he teases me as if he’s been doing it for years instead of days—it feels too real. Too comfortable.
Too much like something I could get used to.
That thought stops me cold because this isn’t supposed to be something I get used to. This is supposed to be temporary, professional, safely contained within the boundaries of a long weekend.
So why does being around him feel like the most natural thing in the world?
The conversation flows around me while I wrestle with the growing certainty that I’m in way over my head. Mitch’s hand stays linked with mine, his attention divided between family stories and ensuring I feel included, and every casual gesture chips away at my carefully constructed walls.
He’s so easy to be around. That’s the problem. With him, I don’t have to perform or prove anything. I can just exist, and somehow that’s enough.
More than enough, if the way he looks at me is any indication.
“I need to grab something from the pantry,” I announce, needing space to think, to get my head together before I do something stupid like forget this is all pretend.
“I’ll help,” Mitch says immediately, standing before I can protest.
The pantry is a narrow space lined with shelves of canned goods and Karen’s elaborate spice collection. It smells like oregano and possibility, and it’s definitely not big enough for two people to stand comfortably.
Especially when one of those people is six-foot-three and radiates heat like a furnace.
“What did you need?” he asks, closing the door behind him.
The click of the latch sounds unnaturally loud in the small space, and suddenly we’re standing in dim light with barely two feet between us.
“I—” I start, then lose track of the thought entirely when he steps closer.
“Because I know what I need,” he says, his voice dropping to that low register that makes my knees weak.
“What’s that?”
Instead of answering, he frames my face with his hands and kisses me like he’s been thinking about it through the entire meal. Like he’s been holding back and finally decided to stop.
