“My boy got distracted by a shiny object.” “I was picking the winners from your Insta,” I explained, as that was my task for the day, “and it’s possible I got stuck on one follower.” Daddy just wanted “peace and quiet,” and for people to enjoy his cooking. I was the one with a degree in photography and design. He was getting better at this part, but there was a reason I handled the pictures and the presentation of the dishes he made. There was also his favorite knife, a dark-red dish towel on the side, and a small gravy boat.

He’d completed the setup with the dinner plate on a thick cutting board, and he’d strewn some cranberries around the plate. That stuff required time for investigation.ĭaddy had placed my camera on one of the stools, so I unpacked it, attached the lens, and joined him on his side of the island. Well…maybe four hours weren’t enough when you accidentally stumbled across someone gorgeous in the comment section. “And tell me why you need more screen time. “You can grab your camera and take the pictures,” he told me. He’d forget the yelling shortly, because I knew Clara and the film crew would arrive soon, so Daddy had to get this done ASAP. “And we don’t like yellin’ in this house, do we, darlin’?” he murmured distractedly. He’d used a piping bag to make duchess potatoes, and they formed a circle around a stir-fry of turkey, leftover vegetables, cranberries, and gravy. I placed my iPad on the countertop and watched him bend down to brush a couple drops of sauce from the edge of the plate. “I yelled for you,” I said, stopping on the other side of the big kitchen island. Not the food or the cooking, but he did not like the social media part. Thanksgiving was a very important holiday for chefs, and his upcoming video series would show his followers how to best use the leftovers to make some spectacular meals. I found Daddy downstairs in the kitchen, where he was preparing his next recipe. He better not get on his Domly high horse and deny me. Then I ran out of my room and toward the stairs. “Oh, shoot,” I mumbled, sliding off my bed. Their dynamic grabbed hold of Anthony and reeled him in before he even heard the magic word. But when he met August and his much younger husband Camden, every plan and all rational thought flew out the window. Hopefully, this vacation would reenergize him, and maybe a cooking class with celebrity chef August King could end Anthony’s reign as the only Italian in Brooklyn who couldn’t boil water. Nashville was a long way from New York and his everyday life that’d lost all color lately. When it seemed like everyone around Anthony Fender was reaching a goal or falling in love, he blamed an early midlife crisis for throwing him far outside of his comfort zone.

We Have Till Monday by Cara Dee