Chapter Eleven

CHAPTER ELEVEN

LUCA

Lunch with my best friends shouldn’t be reminiscent of a high society party, but add in Leigh and Zach, and I feel like I’m back in Shady Grove, navigating one of my mother’s mandatory holiday get-togethers. Except instead of gaudy Christmas outfits and meddling mothers trying to pair me off with their daughters, I’m up against Leigh’s side-eye glances, checking to see if I’m taking care of Zach to her standards.

I couldn’t believe it when she agreed to let me take the lead on lunch with Zach. She even made it a point to sit down at the opposite end of the table between Enzo and Holt.

Of course, that could also be her subtle attempt to put space between us.

A Cheshire cat grin splits my lips as I methodically cut Zach’s roasted chicken and asparagus into tiny pieces while picturing his mother pressed up against me, my lips hovering over hers.

She felt something, too—if only for a moment—before she turned and ran. But it was there. And it gives me hope that maybe the idea of us being a family isn’t as far-fetched as I thought.

Then again, we have a long way and a severely needed apology on my part before we get there.

I glance down at the towhead toddler beside me, offering him his plate.

He immediately reaches for the chicken with his hands, and for a moment, I consider letting him do so, mostly because I love that it’s something that would irritate my mother. Then again, it could be a teaching moment. I can’t help myself. This is what I wanted. To be his dad.

I pull his plate back toward me and pick up the fork from the table, offering it to him.

Zach looks at the fork, back up at me, and shakes his head. “No.”

“Come on, little man,” I coax, putting the fork closer to his hand. “We gotta use the fork.”

“Shit,” Leigh mutters, halting Bash’s explanation to her on the benefits of a quarterback sneak. “I forgot to tell you he’s not a big fan of utensils.”

“Do you mind if I try getting him to use them?”

She hesitates, then lifts her hand and gestures for me to proceed, her lips pressed in a tight grin that says, it’s your funeral.

Permission granted, I lean down so I’m on Zach’s level and whisper, “You know, my brother didn’t like forks when we were little either.”

His little brows raise skeptically, but he keeps listening.

“Really.” I point to where Enzo is sitting on the other side of Zach. “I used to have to feed Enzo, because our mom wouldn’t let him touch his food with his hands.”

Zach looks down at the fork and up at Enzo.

“It’s true. Our mom would make Luca feed me, then I would have to feed him since he fed me all the food from his plate.”

I look up at my brother and silently thank him for playing along and making my ass backwards logic make sense. Not that my almost two-year-old is understanding much of it.

“Would you like to try feeding me?” I ask Zach.

Now that he understood.

“Yes!” he cheers, like I’ve just given him permission to have candy before dinner.

He reaches over and awkwardly stabs a piece of chicken from his plate and reaches up, offering it to me.

My eyes fall in a longing glance at the ribs on my plate. I’ve been dreaming about them since Enzo booked this excursion for us—all smothered in homemade barbecue sauce, smoked low and slow for hours.

And now I’m settling for my kid’s chicken.

There’s got to be some bullshit parenting meme about this. If not, I'm going to make one.

A small laugh catches my attention. I look in the direction it came from and spot Leigh, hand covering her mouth. Tears are in her eyes, but also the hint of a smile just past the edges of her fingers.

I lean forward and make an exaggerated chomping sound as I wrap my lips around the fork and slide the meat from the end, my eyes never leaving hers.

Zach cheers and stabs another piece, lifting it to my mouth. “Again!”

“Nope,” I say, pressing my lips together tight. “Now I get to feed you.”

I pierce a piece of chicken from his plate and lift it in front of him.

He eyes the food and mimics me, pressing his lips together before pointing at my plate. “Nope.”

Shit.

I was really hoping he hadn’t understood that part of the story and wants me to feed me from his plate, so I could at least save the ribs for later.

“Okay,” I sing-song. Holding a silent funeral for my stomach and the ribs that are no longer mine, I cut a small piece and offer it to Zach.

He gives me the biggest smile and chomps down on the fork, rubbing his belly as he chews.

“Is that good?”

He nods and offers me the chicken once again.

We go back and forth until half the food is gone from both of our plates.

“Alright bud,” I start, “I think it’s time for you to show us all your skills.”

“All skills,” he mimics.

“Exactly.” I stab a piece of my ribs and put it in my mouth, savoring the taste with an emphatic “Yum.”

Zach looks down at his plate, then glances at mine.

“Now it’s your turn.”

The table goes quiet—everyone fully invested in my endeavor to get Zach to use a fork on his own.

He eyes our plates again, before he reaches over and stabs a piece of my ribs and brings it to his lips. He makes a big show with a chomping sound as he slides it from the fork into his mouth and gives a loud, “Yum.”

The entire table erupts in cheers. Holt and Bash stand, circling their fists over their heads, and Enzo pats Zach on the back, telling him how awesome that was.

But it’s Leigh who has my attention.

Her blue eyes are locked on Zach, the silver tears that rimmed her eyes before now fall freely as she clutches her sweater in a tight fist. She tries to blink them back, sucking in a sharp breath. Then another. Until her chest heaves and I realize it’s not sadness she’s holding back, but panic.

Shit.

I press my hands to the table and stand, which catches her attention.

As if she knows she’s been caught, she quickly backs her chair up and stands, darting from the room.

“Enzo, you’ve got Zach,” I say as I grab the jacket she left behind and follow my girl into the cold.