Graham leaned in, not crowding her, just close enough that his shoulder brushed hers. He studied the dish like it mattered. Like she mattered.
“You made something people are arguing about,” he said gently. “That’s usually the mark of a good recipe.”
She snorted. “That’s the mark of chaos.”
“Mm. I’ve tasted chaos before.” He picked up his fork. “Usually disappointing. This”—he took a bite, chewed slowly, then smiled, soft and unmistakably sincere—“is actually lovely.”
Agnes waved a hand. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know,” he said quietly. “I still want to.”
Her eyes flicked to him, sharp and guarded. “You’re just saying that to be nice.”
“No,” he said, and there was no teasing in it now. “I’m saying it because you made it. And because you always think what you do isn’t enough.”
She looked back down at her plate. “Careful, Graham.”
I watched the exchange in fascination, wondering just how much Agnes was hiding from us.
“I’m sorry. I didn’t mean—” He shook his head. “Just… I like seeing you proud of something. Even if it’s marshmallows on tatties.”
Agnes’s mouth curved despite herself. “That might be the lowest bar you’ve ever set.”
“I’d raise it for you,” he said without thinking.
Agnes cleared her throat and leaned back, her gaze guarded. “Well, don’t get carried away. I’ll still be blaming Sophie if anyone dies.”
“I’ll tell anyone who asks that it was the best Thanksgiving dish I’d ever had, and that I’d eat it again any day of the week.”
She shook her head, lips twitching. “You’re impossible.”
“Aye,” he said softly. “But I’m on your side.”
Across the table, Lia coughed pointedly into her wine. “You all are going to make me tear up into my wine.”
Agnes and Graham spoke at once.
“He just doesn’t like seeing me sad.”
“She doesn’t realize how good she is at pretty much everything.”
They turned to each other, and despite whatever odd tension bounced between them, they beamed at each other. They must have come to a truce of sorts, and I wondered if this was a Thanksgiving miracle.
And that was when the miracle ended.
It started with Bracken.
One second my squirrel was perched innocently on the edge of the low table, stuffing his cheeks with something suspiciously shiny, and the next—he bolted.
Straight across the floor.
Sir Buster’s head snapped up.
“Oh no,” I breathed.
Too late.
The dogs exploded into motion, as Sir Buster led the charge with a battle cry that could only be described as personal vengeance. Oban followed, barking wildly, with the others joining in, tails and ears flying.