“I remember that differently,” I say slowly, flashing an innocent smile. “In fact, I specifically remember being mad at you for not inviting me to the party you threw the weekend your parents were out of town for someone’s wedding.”
“What?” Mrs. Harris puts down her needle and thread.
“That was a good party,” Mason goes on, smirk on his face. “Sam got plastered, made out with Steffy Miller, and called her by your name.”
“Me?” I echo, way too entertained by this.
“Oh, I remember now,” Jacob continues the story, laughing at Sam. “She got mad, slapped you, and then you puked all over her shoes.”
“Not my finest moment,” Sam say with impressive composure. “And I’m glad I have no memory of that.”
“It’s almost sweet,” I tell him, looking up into his blue eyes. “You were obsessed with me back then.”
“I was.” He puts his arm around my waist. “I wanted to invite you to the party, you know.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“I was too attracted to you.”
“That makes sense,” Mrs. Harris huffs, going back to her sewing. “Your father and I only went to one out-of-town wedding without you kids, and you boys were supposed to be looking after your sister! Where was Rory when all of this was going on?”
“We bribed her to stay in her room and not tell you,” Mason says casually. “What did we bribe her with? I don’t remember.”
“I drove her to some bookstore an hour away to get a fantasy book singed by the author,” Sam says. “And Jacob had to take her to a movie, and you…you were supposed to play Dungeons and Dragons with her but you never did, did you, you asshole?”
Mason shrugs. “I have suffered through that game a time or two.”
“Hey,” I interject. “It’s a fun game.”
“You’re the one who got her into it,” Mason says, slowly shaking his head. “I have you to blame for Rory making me be a girl in the last game, who wasn’t even allowed to play with my own tits.”
I let out a snort of laughter. “I agree with Sam. I do wonder how you’ve made it this far in life.”
Sam and Jacob laugh and thunder rumbles overhead. This storm just won’t end, but there’s something so peaceful about the constant low rumbling of the thunder and the steady pitter patter of the rain on the trees.
“Should I get the puzzles?” Jacob asks.
Sam looks at me and I nod. “Why not?” he says.
“And I’ll get the tequila,” Mason notes.
“I can’t do tequila shots,” I say with a quiver. “Not anymore. Give me a margarita and I’m fine, but straight tequila—nope. Get the whiskey instead.”
“You know you’re not supposed to do shots of whiskey, right? It’s for sipping.”
I shrug. “I’ve heard that. Vodka then? Rum? Hell, I’d do a shot of gin before tequila.”
Mason laughs. “What happened to make you not like tequila?”
“A book signing in Mexico last year. We were all doing shots and I went from I don’t feel anything to not remembering the rest of the night.” I look at Sam. “But I didn’t throw up. I wanted to in the morning, but my iron stomach held.”
“Showoff,” Sam says with a grin.
“I’ll get you whiskey, then,” Mason tells me.
“Not the peanut butter one,” I request, still grossed out by it.
“Want pumpkin spice instead?”
I wrinkle my nose. “I’m not a basic bitch. I don’t do pumpkin spice. Though I need to add that there is nothing wrong with being basic. Just be nice and do what makes you happy.”
“I know what—or who—you like to do to make you happy,” Sam whisper-talks, pulling me into his lap.
“Ugh, I hate PDA,” Jacob grumbles, pulling the puzzles out of an antique cabinet next to the fireplace.
“Human PDA, you mean,” Mason says and stands from the loveseat. “If it were a cat or a dog or a sheep, you’d be fine with it, right?”
“You know that’s getting really fucking old,” Jacob rounds.
Sam kisses my neck and then we get up, going into the formal dining room to start our puzzle contest.
“For this to be a fair contest, don’t we need two of the same puzzle?” he asks.
“Yes,” Mason answers. “And it’s a good thing mom forgets what she’s already bought from a store when she does her late-night Amazon shopping.” He holds up two identical puzzles. A scene from an ice cream shop is on the front of the box, and I can tell right away a puzzle like this could take days.
“Seven-hundred and fifty pieces?” I look at Mason incredulously. “And you expect us to get this done in like an hour, while drinking?”
“Don’t worry, Chloe,” Jacob tells me. “Assuming you and Sam are on a team, you’re going to win. The puzzles Mason is used to are the big wooden ones Adam likes to play with.”
“Adam is way too young for puzzles,” Mason replies, talking about their nephew. “And that farmhouse puzzle you got him was surprisingly challenging for something geared for babies.”