Page 12 of The Risk Taker

“Obviously,” I say, a small laugh escaping.

Mom huffs. “Because it’s Sunday night and he’s weighingpeppersfor crying out loud.”

Dad chuckles. “Relax, honey. Discipline’s what makes him good.” He claps a hand on my shoulder. “Better than eating stale chips from a vending machine for dinner like I did in college. Kid knows what he needs. He’s focused. Doesn’t let himself get distracted by what he wants instead of what makes him better. That’s the difference between being decent and being the best.”

Mom narrows her eyes like she’s two seconds away from chucking a spatula at his head. “That’s the difference between you sleeping on the couch instead of in our bed tonight.”

I shake my head, smiling. It’s always like this. Him provoking, her pretending to be mad, both of them still stupidly in love after twenty-plus years.

Dad just lifts a brow and turns to me, his expression completely serious now. “Nathan, drop the scale or you’re benched.”

I whip my head toward him, my jaw dropping. “The fuck?”

“Language,” Mom warns, pointing a wooden spoon at me. Then she turns back to Dad, a smile tugging at her mouth as she pats his cheek. “You’re out of the doghouse.”

And just like that, he’s beaming again. The man is hopeless. Has been for as long as I can remember. He’ll bend himself in half if it means getting her to smile.

“Unbelievable,” I mutter under my breath, dragging the scale toward the back of the counter, out of sight.

I stir the peppers into the sauce, pretending not to notice the way Dad’s hand settles at the small of her back, or how she leans into it.

God, they’re so disgustingly in love. It’s gross.

And, fine… maybe kind of nice.

The back door creaks open just as I’m drying my hands on a dish towel. I hear the shuffle of boots, the muffled thud of someone dropping a bag, and then—of course—Ryan’s voice.

“We brought dessert.” Ryan strolls into the kitchen with a bakery box in hand.

“We stopped at Dolce,” Isabella says, trailing behind him, brushing snow off her coat. “We grabbed the last apple tart.”

Mom beams. “You’re my favorite child.”

“Excuse me?” I raise a brow. “I chopped peppers. She shows up with one measly tart and suddenly she’s the favorite?”

“You didn’t even chop them right,” Izzy says, slipping past me to peek into the pot. “These are chunks, not strips.”

I scoff and nudge her with my elbow. “Go sit down.”

“I’m just joking, sweetheart,” Mom says with a chuckle. “I don’t have favorites.”

“No, but she does have a sweet tooth,” Dad adds. “Your mom sees sugar and forgets about everything around her.”

Isabella laughs, and I catch the way she leans a little closer to Ryan and he wraps an arm around her waist.

I wasn’t thrilled when I first found out they were sneaking around. Not exactly easy to process your best friend kissing your little sister behind your back. But they… fit. Stupid as it sounds, they just do. She’s happy. And that’s all a big brother can hope for.

Dad raises a brow. “Alright, maybe tone down the PDA before I lose my appetite.”

Ryan chuckles, stepping away from Isabella. He heads for the fridge, grabs two cans of soda, and tosses one my way. I catch it, crack it open, and take a sip while Mom ladles sauce into a dish.

“Izz.” Mom glances at my sister over her shoulder. “Bring the salad.”

Isabella heads toward the counter, grabbing the salad dish, and follows mom out of the kitchen.

“Nice apron,” Ryan says, nodding toward me and shaking his head as a scoff comes out. “You’re such a momma’s boy.”

I glance down, then shoot him a look. “And you’re still a pain in my ass.”