“Huh.” Persephone sprawled in her seat, tapping a finger over her chin thoughtfully. “But maybe it’s a start? He never contacted you before, and you’re hardly the only person he could turn to.”
Persephone was such a romantic, anything short of Sam trying to maim me with a machete would register in her mind as a prime example of his undying love for me.
I rolled my eyes. “You’re grasping at straws, Pers.”
“Weirder pairings have happened. Look at your brother and me,” she said eagerly, making her case. “You just need more patience as you pursue him.”
“Cillian always had a boner for you. He just hid it like a thirteen-year-old. Sam is not pursuable,” I concluded, feeling like a phony since I was definitely waist-deep in this cat and mouse game with Sam.
But I didn’t want to jinx things or jump to conclusions. Plus, if nothing came out of it—which was likely; my plan was farfetched—at least I wouldn’t have to deal with more pity from my friends.
“If your brothers are pursuable, so is Sam,” Persy determined, putting her foot down. “You should go for what you want.”
“But what if what I want is everything that’s bad for me?” I turned around, finding her gaze. “What if I’m stupid to want Sam Brennan? He is a gangster. A murderer. An underground boss and my father’s right hand. So many things can go wrong. If they’ll go in any direction at all …”
“You just described love.” Persy grinned. “Love is a risk. It’s a storm that either disrupts your life or clears your path. Sometimes it does both at the same time. Focus on getting the guy. Everything else will fall into place.”
An hour and a half later, the evening was in full swing.
Everyone was at the table, digging into the delicious food Cook had made.
Honey-roasted turkey, buttery mashed potatoes, pumpkin pecan bread pudding, golden baked apples, and savory sausage stuffing.
Candlelight danced around the room, casting playful glows on familiar faces, as chatter rang from all across the table.
Sailor and Persy’s au pairs sat in the far corner of the room with the children—Astor, Xander, and Rooney—gossiping and tending to the babies. Sam sat all the way at the other side of the table from me, and even though I could feel his eyes on me every now and again, assessing, daring, challenging, I made it a point to stick to conversations with my mother, Sailor, Persephone, and Emmabelle.
Normally, I would try to talk to him, ask him questions, form some sort of a connection. Not right now and not today. I was no longer the girl who chased him. Or so I wanted him to think.
“The concept of Thanksgiving is still jarring to me,” Devon complained from the other end of the table, next to Sam, in his imperial, posh English drawl. He cut his turkey into frighteningly even pieces and looked entirely too good for a man who didn’t model for a living. “Who exactly are you lot thanking?”
Devon was what Belle referred to as appallingly gorgeous. All soft blond, sandy curls twisting at the ears and the nape of his neck, piercing blue eyes, and the bone structure of a deity.
“Um, God?” Hunter threw a piece of sweet potato into his mouth, chewing. “You’re just bitter because we have stuff to be thankful for. Big-box stores, the First Amendment, Jewish deli food, and, of course, Scarlett Johansson. What do you have to be thankful for?”
“Footie, brown sauce, and being generally intellectually superior to the Yanks,” Devon deadpanned, regarding all the food at the table like it was suspicious.
“By footie you mean soccer?” My father frowned. He’d been fairly quiet the entire night.
“No, by football I mean football. The one where you kick the ball with your foot…” Devon patted the corners of his mouth unnecessarily with a napkin “…as opposed to holding it in your hand while running, crashing into random people like a barbarian trying to sneak the rival village’s best-looking maiden.”
“Keep trashing football, and the only thing you’ll be thankful for this Thanksgiving is getting out of this meal in one piece.” Troy offered a stony smile, swirling his whiskey in his hand.
“So, Sam, you’re the last single man standing. Up for a quick trip to Sin City to play blackjack at the casino this weekend?” Devon changed the subject.
“You’re still doing that?” Sparrow darted poisonous arrows at her son through her jade-green eyes. “It’s dangerous, not to mention reckless. You’re already blacklisted from three hotels.”
Sam smiled, eating and pretending like the conversation didn’t swirl around him.
“Not surprised.” Hunter chuckled, raising his virgin Bloody Mary to his lips. “Do I want to know what for?”
“Winning too much money.” Devon laughed, pouring himself another drink. “Sam is the best blackjack player I’ve ever seen in my lifetime. A wizard with numbers, really. He makes all the calculations in split seconds.”