By the time the first truck pulls up outside, the kitchen looks like a magazine spread collided with a Southern grandmother’s fever dream.

Platters everywhere.

French toast dusted with powdered sugar. Bacon stacked high. Quiche cups lined neatly beside jars of homemade jam you insisted on bringing from Bellvine. Peach mimosas catching the late morning light like liquid gold.

And you—bare legs beneath John’s oversized shirt, MasterChef apron still tied around your waist—are standing at the stove with a spatula in hand when John suddenly goes rigid beside the counter.

You don’t even need to ask.

“They’re here?” you murmur.

John exhales once through his nose. “Yeah.”

Outside, truck doors slam.

More than one.

“Oh, good,” you say faintly. “A herd.”

John almost smiles before catching himself.

“You don’t have to do this all at once,” he says quietly, close enough now that you catch traces of cedar, coffee, and the cold Montana air clinging to him. “Could’ve eased you into it.”

“And miss the opportunity to be judged simultaneously? Absolutely not.”

That earns the smallest huff of amusement from him.

Then the front door opens.

Heavy footsteps first.

A man’s voice. “Something smells illegal in here.”

Kayce.

You wipe your hands quickly on a towel right as he walks in beside Monica Dutton and Tate, who immediately spots the muffins like a heat-seeking missile.

Kayce stops short.

Not because you’re intimidating.

Because you look deeply, bizarrely normal.

Pretty girl in an oversized shirt. Flour on your cheek. Wooden spoon in hand.

Not the femme fatale Beth clearly prepared him for.

“…Huh,” Kayce says intelligently.

You smile politely. “That usually means someone expected horns.”

Monica snorts before she can stop herself.

John gives Kayce a look that translates roughly to behave or die.

Then comes Beth.

You hear her before you see her.

Boots sharp against hardwood.

And when Beth Dutton steps into the kitchen, the entire atmosphere changes temperature.

She’s beautiful in the way lightning is beautiful—dangerous, bright, impossible not to look at.

Her eyes move over the kitchen first.

The food.

The apron.

Your bare legs.

Your hand resting unconsciously near John’s coffee mug.

Then finally your face.

You can practically hear her assembling psychological warfare in real time.

“Well,” Beth says slowly. “Dad finally brought home a woodland nymph.”

“Beth,” John warns.

“No, no,” she continues, still staring at you. “I’m trying to figure out if she kills men intentionally or as a hobby.”

You meet her gaze evenly. “Only recreationally.”

A pause.

Kayce chokes on his coffee.

And to everyone’s visible shock, Beth’s mouth twitches.

Not a smile exactly.

But close enough to survive the encounter.

Then Jamie arrives.

Poor bastard walks directly into the tension like a deer into traffic.

Jamie Dutton stops near the doorway, taking in the entire scene with immediate suspicion.

“…Why does this feel like an ambush?”

“Because you’re a lawyer,” Beth replies instantly. “Everything feels like an ambush.”

You step forward before the siblings can begin ritual combat.

“Goldie Vale,” you say warmly, offering your hand. “I made enough brunch to emotionally manipulate everybody equally.”

Jamie blinks once before shaking your hand carefully.

“You seem… surprisingly self-aware.”

“That’s the anxiety.”

John mutters into his coffee, “Told you.”

Within twenty minutes, chaos settles over the table.

Tate declares your French toast “better than pancakes,” which apparently causes a minor family debate. Kayce wants your quiche recipe. Monica compliments the peach mimosas. Jamie looks mildly terrified every time Beth and you speak to each other like two cats circling the same knife.

And Beth—

Beth watches.

You notice it every time you glance up.

The way she studies your reactions. Your posture. Your silences.

Testing for weakness.

The strange thing is, you don’t think she hates you.

You think she’s trying to determine whether you’re real.

“You smoke with him?” Beth suddenly asks from across the table.