I watched his mouth as he chewed. His throat as he swallowed. His hands holding the knife and fork. Everything about him was turning me on, even the basic act of eating.
“He’s with his dad.” Jamie answered.
“Who’s Hunter?” I asked, grateful for any distraction from my spiraling thoughts.
Jamie’s pretty smile lit up her whole face. “My son.”
“Our son,” Eric corrected.
A look passed between them. One that was so layered and intimate I felt like an intruder. Jamie set down her fork and covered Eric’s hand with hers. They held each other’s gaze, and then he leaned forward and pressed a kiss to her forehead.
“Yes,” she agreed softly. “Our son.”
It hit me then. That look. Those gestures. The feeling of trespassing on something sacred. This was a couple deeply, fundamentally in love.
Real love. True fucking love.
“Hunter is technically Jamie’s son from a previous relationship,” Caleb explained beside me. “But Eric sort of adopted him when they got together.”
“I wish I could make it official,” Eric muttered, his jaw tightening. “But his biological father’s still in the picture and won’t sign off on it.”
“Hunter’s sixteen,” Jamie soothed, her hand still over his. “Two more years and it won’t matter. You’re the one he lives with. The reliable one. Dylan’s just got the title.”
Silverware clattered against china as Chantel shoved back from the table.
“Excuse me.” Her tone was anything but apologetic. “I’m suddenly not feeling well.”
She threw her napkin down and turned to leave.
“Chantel.” Solange’s voice was sharp.
They exchanged rapid French—too fast and too heated for me to follow. But the tone was clear. Neither of them was happy.
“I need some air,” Chantel said flatly, and walked out.
“Maybe I should go check on her.” My stomach rolled uncomfortably. I was furious with Chantel, but she was still my person, and seeing her this upset made my chest ache.
Caleb’s hand landed on my knee under the table. “I think she needs a minute alone. She’s been working a lot of long hours.”
Like that explained her behavior. It certainly didn’t excuse it.
Other than Solange’s carefully masked concern, no one seemed rattled by Chantel’s exit. Jamie and Eric were still exchanging soft looks, Brooklyn was focused on her food, and Mia appeared to be losing her battle against turkey coma.
And Caleb’s hand was still on my knee.
His thumb swept back and forth, his expression guarded. The slight shake of his head and the cut of his eyes toward Eric warned me not to push.
“So, Caleb.” Solange’s voice broke through the quiet, her tone strained. “Chantel tells me you’ve been volunteering at the hospital.”
His head was still turned toward me, so Solange couldn't see his eyes squeeze shut, or the sharp breath he drew through his nose. But I could.
“You’re doing what?” Eric’s voice dropped to something low and dangerous.
“It’s nothing,” Caleb said, turning back to face the table.
“I wouldn’t call it nothing.” Solange pressed on, seemingly unaware of the damage she was doing. “Three times a week in the pediatric oncology ward? That’s quite significant.”
“Oh, Caleb.” Jamie’s hand flew to her chest.