When Aria Monroe lands her dream job as the new photographer for Los Angeles's professional hockey team, the last thing she expects is to work with the cocky, arrogant center Connor Holden who rocked her world five years ago during a one-night stand...
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Levi lives a couple of miles away from the city in a house he purchased five years ago. It could easily fit a family of six, but when I asked him about the size, all he said was the investment would be worth it in the long run. Maybe he's right. I've been throwing my money away renting a damn penthouse since I got signed to the Cyclones.
"Your first Friendsgiving with us," Levi says by way of greeting. An apron is tied around his waist, and the entryway smells fucking amazing. The dining room to the left holds one of those elaborate tables that could fit about twenty people. A runner is draped across it with decorative chargers and fancy china, candelabras already lit and glowing down the center. "Nice of you to join us. I wonder why you had a sudden change of heart."
"You act like I chose not to attend because I'd rather stay home and watch football or something." I follow him into the kitchen and linger by the island while he checks one of his ovens harboring the turkey. "You're the one that decides to host these Friendsgiving's on Thanksgiving day. I've always spent the holiday with my family."
"And yet this year the moment Aria decides to attend you jumped through hoops to be here."
"Levi—"
He throws his hands up, which are protected by oven mitts. "Hey, I'm not complaining. I'm happy you decided to come, and I'm thrilled for you and Aria, too, even if you won't admit you're together. It's pretty damn obvious at this point."
As he bastes the turkey, I pour myself a glass of scotch and take a tentative sip before I reply, "I'm not sure if she wants everyone to know. She's terrified of losing her job, and for good reason. Aria is... Well, this is new for her. I don't want to scare her off before we begin, you know?"
"Trust me, I get it. Can you pass me that pan of mac and cheese?" He points to a tinfoil pan, and I gratefully oblige, thankful for the subject change. "This is going to be your first time trying a Black man's mac and cheese. It'll change your life."
I arch a brow, eyeing the pan. "Is it really any different than a white person's?"
He chuckles. "Trust me, it is. I grew up with my mom making it her way and my dad making his. My dad's was by far the superior batch. We used to—"
"Is dinner ready yet?" Mila bounces across the tiled floor, her hair tied up into pigtails with festive ribbons. She inhales the aroma of the kitchen, eyes gleaming. "I'm starving."
At the age of seven, Mila is a little firecracker. She's feisty and is a spitting image of her brother. While Levi and her share the same deep tan skin with honey-brown eyes, Levi's hair has a curlier texture, and Mila's is pin-straight, taking after their mother.
"Not yet," Levi says. "Why don't you go ahead and put the silverware on the table?"
"But—"
"No buts," he warns with a sharp glare. "If I'm making all of this food for everyone the least you can do is help finish setting the table."
