“We’ll make sure she eats now,” Willow tells him, then asks, “Will you tell Clay he can come get the burger patties when the grill’s hot?”

“Sure.” He smiles at her, then looks down at me and touches his fingers to my jaw before walking away.

“Are you okay?” Miranda asks, and I look over at where she’s standing in the kitchen, cutting up tomatoes. Emma is next to her, trying and failing to hide her smile, and Willow is doing the same.

“Yep, great. Totally great.”

“It’s good that you’re totally great.” Emma laughs, and I drag my teeth over my bottom lip to keep from laughing along with her.

Stuffed full and completely exhausted, despite my nap earlier today, I try to avoid leaning into Dayton as the elevator takes us down to his floor a few hours later.

It was a good night, with great food and even better company, and even though I just met everyone, I never once felt out of place or awkward. If there was a conversation going on around me, I was always included, and when the couples all got back together when it was time to eat, Dayton sat close to me, so I didn’t feel like the odd man out, which was sweet.

“I really like your family,” I tell him with a yawn as the doors open, and we step off the elevator.

“They like you too.” He lets us into his place, and PJ runs over and jumps up on the couch to lie down. He might be more tired than I am after playing with the kids, Skye, and Dolly, all evening—plus running free in their backyard, which might be as cool as the playroom and bar that Clay and Willow have inside their place.

“Can I ask you something?” I kick off my sandals and follow him to the couch.

“Sure.”

“I know you mentioned that you grew up in foster care...”

“They aren’t my biological brothers,” he answers my question without me having to find a way to ask. “We all ended up in the same foster family and grew up together.”

“How old were you?”

“Thirteen.”

Thirteen?

My chest gets tight. At thirteen, I was having sleepovers with friends and arguing with my parents about stupid things like my bedtime and how much TV I could watch. I can’t imagine getting removed from my family and having to live with people I didn’t know, especially at that age.

“That’s pretty young,” I say quietly.

“It is, but it isn’t. Just a few more years, and I would have been considered an adult.”

“Then you could have lived on your own?” I can understand why he would look at it like that.

“No.” His expression fills with something dark. “A few more years, and I could have been charged as an adult for murder.”

I feel like I’ve been slapped.