Chapter 180: Five Plates

NORA’S POV

I held my breath, waiting for him to continue.

"After the mansion cleared out and the guests left around midnight, the catering staff would pack up," Knox said softly, a faint nostalgia warming his voice. "My dad would go straight to his study to review contracts. But my mom... she’d kick off her heels, sneak down to the kitchen in her stocking feet, and pull me in after her."

I rested my hand gently on his forearm. "What did you two do?"

"We made turkey sandwiches," Knox whispered, a small, genuine smile touching his lips. "She’d pull cold carved turkey from the walk-in fridge, grab a tub of leftover cranberry sauce, and we’d sit cross-legged on the kitchen floor eating off paper towels in the dark. Just the two of us. Laughing about how boring the speeches were."

The image hit me right in the chest, so sweet and so heartbreakingly lonely.

"How old were you?" I asked softly.

"Nine the last time we did it," Knox replied, his jaw tightening slightly. "She got sick that winter. After she died, the late-night sandwiches stopped. The kitchen was locked after the caterers left. Thanksgiving just became another corporate photo-op where I had to sit straight and keep my mouth shut."

My throat burned with sudden tears.

I unbuckled my seatbelt, slid across the leather console, and wrapped both arms around his neck, burying my face against his warm collar.

Knox inhaled sharply, letting one hand leave the wheel to wrap firmly around my waist, holding me tight against his side.

"My mom’s kitchen isn’t locked, Knox," I whispered fiercely against his skin. "There are no speeches. No donors. No tuxedos. Just food, warmth, and people who actually care about you."

Knox let out a ragged breath, pressing his face into my hair. "Thank you, Nora."

He kissed the crown of my head before gently nudging me back into the passenger seat so I could buckle up as we took the Oakhaven exit ramp.

Twenty minutes later, the black truck turned onto Elm Street.

The familiar small-town neighborhood looked like a vintage postcard under the falling snow. Modest colonial houses sat set back from the road, front porches glowing with warm holiday lanterns.

Knox slowed the truck, pulling up along the curb outside the Bennett house.

Thin gray smoke curled peacefully from the stone chimney. Through the front bay window, I could see the soft amber glow of living room lamps.

The rich, savory aroma of roasted turkey, sage stuffing, and fresh-baked bread drifted through the mountain air before we even stepped out of the truck.

Knox cut the engine.

He unbuckled and sat there for a second, his gray eyes looking up at the front porch steps with an expression of quiet hesitation I had never seen on him before.

He was Knox Sheridan, varsity captain, feared defenseman, future NHL draft pick. Yet right now, stepping into an ordinary family home without his father’s name to shield him, he looked completely vulnerable.

"Ready?" I asked softly, reaching across to squeeze his hand.

Knox met my eyes, swallowed, and nodded. "Ready."

We stepped out into the freezing air, our boots crunching against the fresh snow on the walkway. Knox grabbed my duffel and the wooden basket from the truck bed.

We hadn’t even reached the bottom porch step when the front door flew wide open.

"They’re here!"

Mom burst out onto the wooden porch, wearing a pair of jeans, wool socks, and a navy apron with flour smudged across her left cheek. Her smile was bright enough to melt the snow off the roof.

"Nora! Knox!"

She hurried down the steps without a coat, completely ignoring the freezing wind.

Before Knox could even set the bags down or offer a polite handshake, Mom stepped right up to his massive frame, wrapped both arms around his ribs, and pulled him into a fierce, bone-crushing hug.

"Get in this house right this second before you two catch your death of cold!" Mom scolded lovingly.

Knox froze.

His arms hovered in the air for half a heartbeat, his wide gray eyes darting to mine in sheer, stunned disbelief.

Then, slowly, the tension dissolved from his massive frame. His broad shoulders dropped. He lowered the duffel to the snow and wrapped his long arms gently around my mother, returning the embrace with quiet reverence.

"Happy Thanksgiving, Mrs. Bennett," Knox murmured, his voice thick with emotion.

"Oh, call me Ellen, honey! None of that formal nonsense in this house," Mom beamed, pulling back and patting his solid cheek with flour-dusted fingers. "Look at you! You’re freezing! Inside, both of you!"

She ushered us up the steps and into the warm, bustling entryway.

The house smelled incredible. Cinnamon, roasted garlic, fresh rosemary, and the savory warmth of roasting turkey and brown-butter sage stuffing wafted through the hall. Classic jazz played softly from a radio on the kitchen counter.

Knox kicked off his boots by the mat, setting his bags by the stairs.

"Here," Mom said, bustling back from the kitchen with a faded yellow floral apron in her hands. "Put this on, Knox. You’re officially on kitchen duty."

I bit my lip to keep from laughing out loud.

Knox Sheridan, the most intimidating athlete in the ECAC conference, dutifully ducked his head so my five-foot-two mother could loop a floral apron around his neck. He tied the strings behind his back, looking completely natural in the middle of our cramped, cozy kitchen.

Mom handed him a wooden cutting board, a paring knife, and a massive ceramic bowl piled high with sweet potatoes.

"Peel those into chunks, handsome," Mom ordered with a wink. "I need to baste the bird."

"Yes, ma’am," Knox smirked, grabbing the knife with practiced ease.

I leaned against the counter beside him, watching with a full, glowing heart as Knox began peeling potatoes like a seasoned prep chef. He looked peaceful. He looked like he belonged.

Mom paused at the oven door, shooting me a knowing look. "Don’t just stand there ogling him, Nora. Put yourself to work or come help me with the cranberry relish."

Knox’s mouth twitched with amused satisfaction, but he kept his eyes on his cutting board. "Let her look, Ellen. I don’t mind an audience."

"You’re terrible," I laughed, feeling heat rush to my cheeks.

"I’m going upstairs to change into my holiday sweater and freshen up," Mom said, wiping her hands on a dish towel and hanging it on the oven handle. "Keep him company, Nora. And don’t eat all the marshmallows before the casserole goes in."

"I promise nothing," I called back smoothly.

Mom chuckled, her footsteps pattering up the narrow wooden stairs toward the second floor.

The kitchen fell into a cozy, quiet hush.

The soft hum of jazz drifted from the radio, mingling with the sizzle of butter and the steady, rhythmic thunk of Knox’s knife against the board.

I took half a step closer, resting my hip against the counter right beside him. "You look dangerously domestic, Sheridan."

Knox paused his knife, turning his head to look down at me.

His gray eyes crinkled at the corners. Reaching out with his free hand, he caught my chin between his warm thumb and forefinger, tilting my face up.

"I could get used to this," he murmured in a low and raspy voice against the quiet of the room. "No photographers. No silver platters. Just you."

My chest squeezed with something so fierce it almost hurt. "Yeah?"

"Yeah," he said softly.

He leaned down, pressing a lingering, tender kiss to my forehead, right at the hairline. His thumb brushed along the edge of my jaw before he reluctantly let go and picked the potato back up.

"Your mom is amazing, Bennett," he added, a genuine warmth lighting up his sharp features. "I see where you get it."

"Careful," I teased, bumping my shoulder lightly against his arm. "Flattery won’t save you from mashing those."

Minutes later, footsteps thumped on the staircase, and Mom bustled back into the kitchen, wearing her favorite maroon cardigan with pearl buttons.

She took a deep breath, glancing out the snowy window above the sink.

"Oh, perfect timing!" Mom said cheerfully. "Nora, sweetie, grab five plates from the hutch and set the dining table."

I paused, turning from the counter. "Five plates? Mom, it’s just the three of us."

"Have you forgotten?" Mom laughed warmly, completely oblivious to the sudden chill in my veins. "Drew and his uncle Hank called five minutes ago. They just left their house and are strolling over right now!"

The kitchen went dead silent.

My breath stopped in my throat.

The paring knife froze in Knox’s hand, hovering half an inch above a peeled sweet potato.

His head turned slowly.

His gray eyes locked onto mine, sharp, questioning, and suddenly very alert.

"Drew?" Knox repeated in a low, quiet, and dangerously still voice. "As in Drew Miller?"

Before I could force a single syllable past my frozen tongue, snow boots stomped on the wooden porch steps outside, followed by a loud, cheerful knock that rattled the front door.