Holly didn’t seem fazed at all. “Profession? Is that what it is? A job you’ve had since your teens?” Then she laughed. “Well, I suppose it is a profession by now. A little late for you to go to college and start over. I’m assuming you’re over thirty.”

There was a long, awkward silence, broken only by Sandra, who flitted nervously about the kitchen. “So who’s ready for casserole? It’s all ready.”

Abby surprised her by leaning closer against her. “Oh my god. You’re over thirty? How does Holly know this and I don’t? You keep telling me you’re only twenty-nine, like me.”

“I am twenty-nine. Would I lie to you?” She glanced at Holly. “I’m sure at your age—What? Forty?—it’s hard to guess the age of others younger than you.”

Abby gave a muted laugh beside her while Holly gasped. “Forty? Seriously? I mean, not that I have anything against forty, I’m simply not anywhere near that.”

Nic shrugged. “I don’t really care.” She turned to Sandra. “That casserole smells divine. Can I help with something?”

“Oh, thank you, Nicole, but I’ll just put it on the table, and everyone can scoop as they want.”

Nic felt Abby’s hand on her thigh and its gentle squeeze. She turned to her, meeting her gaze. Without thinking, she leaned closer, kissing her. It wasn’t a long, drawn-out kiss, no. They were sitting at the breakfast table, after all. But it wasn’t the quick touch that they’d done earlier that morning in front of her mother. Even so, Abby’s eyes were still smiling at her, and her hand never left her thigh. Nic returned her smile, feeling all of the…well, the blueness she’d been feeling earlier slip away. Yeah, the hell with Holly. For Abby’s sake, if she wanted to make a good impression on anyone, it was her parents. She didn’t give a fuck about Holly.

The breakfast was eaten mostly in silence, even with Sandra trying to force the conversation along. It was a great meal, though, and she took seconds. A biscuit batter type of thing with eggs and sausage, spinach and mushrooms, and loads of cheese. She was stuffed when she pushed her plate away, wondering how on earth she could contemplate a burger for lunch after that.

“That was delicious, Sandra,” she complimented. “You’ve got to give Abby the recipe.”

“Thank you, Nicole. It’s one I’ve been making for years. It’s one of Abigail’s favorites too. I’m surprised she hasn’t whipped it up for you already.”

“Mom, this thing has so many calories and fat grams, I wouldn’t dream of having it for anything other than Christmas.” Abby turned to her. “So don’t get any ideas!”

“Then maybe I should get the recipe then.”

“Do you cook, Nicole?” Sandra asked.