I know that Brynn is just trying to get the focus off Vonnie, but as a person who thrives behind the scenes, having everyone staring at me in the middle of Thanksgiving dinner is something ripped from my nightmares. Luckily for me, though, the guy I’m falling head over heels for does his best work in front of a crowd and takes over for us.

“It does.” He settles back into his seat and rests one arm across the back of my chair. He looks so comfortable sitting at a table with his coworkers and friends, talking about us. Confirming that there is an us. “But I don’t know about you getting to gloat, though.”

I don’t know whether to be embarrassed that all eyes have turned to me—even Poppy’s, which have only been on Vonnie or the plate that TK made her before we even said grace—or just give in to the giddy goodness that’s filling me up more than the food in front of me ever could.

“That’s fair,” Brynn says. “You don’t really know me too well, but I gloat. Like . . . a lot. And I did an entire whiteboard presentation trying to get her to acknowledge that you were into her, so I’m gonna go ahead and gloat.”

Maxwell just stares at Brynn with a soft smile on his face as she talks, like every word that comes out of her mouth is the most interesting thing in the entire world. His love for her is written all over his face. It’s disgustingly cute.

Quinton’s hand freezes, his fork full of mac and cheese suspended midbite. “A whiteboard presentation?”

“Oh! You’re Elliot?” TK asks. “I was wondering why your name was all over my board. Have you figured out the job thing yet? Or is Mahler still going to let you go?”

Because I have always been a huge Mustangs fan, TK was one of my favorite players. Not only was he a fantastic player, but he was so much fun to watch. He was one of those guys who actually looked like they loved what they did when they were on the field. Also, he’s so hot it hurts my eyes to look at him and his Thor-adjacent face. In order not to make a total fool out of myself, I avoided meeting him when the chances arose.

Something I’m deeply regretting at the moment.

“Ummm . . . you know, not really, but—you know.” I trip over my words. It’s like I can feel Quinton’s gaze burning a hole through my skin.

“No.” Quinton sets his fork on his plate. “I don’t know. Mahler is going to let you go?”