Dirty Chef

“No,” I murmured. “But he’ll spend the rest of his life doing everything he can to be the man she deserves.”

Alessia’s gaze softened, and she swallowed hard.

I cleared my throat and eyed my mother. “That’s enough chitchat. I’m gonna get the food ready, and you two can set the table.”

* * *

Half an hour later, the house was full and the food was ready. All my brothers were here with their significant others, and a set of baby twins was screaming bloody fucking murder at how excited they were.

I couldn’t wait to get my eardrums shattered by a kid of my own.

I cringed when Jack came into the kitchen with one of the twins to heat up breast milk in the microwave.

“It’s okay to only like your own kids, right?” I asked. “Hypothetically. Or do you have to love all kids to love one of your own?”

Alessia wasn’t here, so it was safe to ask.

Jack frowned at me. “Of course you don’t have to like other people’s children.” He paused. “But you do have to love mine.”

“Right. Yeah.” No, but it made sense. I did love my niece and nephew—I just didn’t like them very much.

“Now for the obvious question,” Jack went on. “Why?”

I shrugged and turned back to the last plate I was decorating. “I was just curious.” I refilled the deco pen with more whiskey sauce and made a zigzag pattern with it over the brisket, the vegetable skewer, the roasted potatoes, the grilled tomato, and the shoestring onions.

“I have two things to say,” Jack told me and peered down at the food. It was like he didn’t even notice that his newborn was screaming in his arms. “One, that looks amazing. Two, who knew my twin brother could be so cute sometimes? This has to mean I’m cute too. I’m gonna go tell Isla I’m cute.”

I glared at his retreating form. What was he talking about?

I was always cute.

Alessia and Ma returned to get the last of the food to serve, and I glanced around the kitchen to see if I’d missed anything. Drinks were out, food was out, cake was in the fridge, everything was set. Okay, then.

I followed the women through the downstairs—the hallway that had more pictures than a photo exhibit, Ma’s sunroom with her million potted plants, the living room, and out onto the terrace. I expected at least a cold breeze to hit me, but Pop was really going all out on the heaters.

It was my favorite part of the house. From here, we could see all of Camassia. The sky was dark with red and orange streaks flirting with the horizon from the sun that’d disappeared while I’d prepared the food.

It was a large deck that stretched along the length of the house and had three seating areas, and dinner was set up on the long dining table in the middle. Ma had been so stoked to buy a new one that seated all of us.

The wineglasses caught the flickering flames from the candles, the same light glinting in Alessia’s eyes.

I sat down next to her in the midst of “Holy hell, this looks good” and “Can you cook for us every day, Adam?” The last one was Lola, a young chick with violet hair who had made Alex return to the land of the living after being a jaded fuck for years.

“I feel like you got enough Gradys out there in the woods to worry about,” I chuckled.

She sent Alex an impish grin, and he merely shook his head in amusement.

Jesus, we all had the same type in this family. We went for the women who could keep us on our toes. Voices of reason, hell-raisers, opinionated brats, and strong—all wrapped up in one.

“To another Grady Night,” Jameson said and raised his glass. “An official welcome to the family for the newborns whose names we still don’t know.” That was a not-so-subtle hint to Jack and Isla.

They exchanged a smile, and Isla nodded. She was currently feeding the little monster Jack had carried into the kitchen earlier. I guess the other one was asleep. There was a baby monitor between their plates.

“I suppose this is a good time,” Jack said.

“Preferably before the food gets cold,” Pop urged from the head of the table. “I haven’t eaten all day, son.”

I grinned. He’d been my biggest supporter when I decided to become a chef. To this day, he claimed he didn’t eat if I was cooking dinner. That way, he could have two servings or even three—his words.

Jack smirked and tipped his wineglass to me for some reason. “We named our son Kyle after the man who told me to get my shit together and sleep with my college friend’s daughter.”

I barked out a laugh, humbled and amused beyond words. Good thing my middle name hadn’t been something like Bob or Harold.