“Ignore them.” The woman holds out her hand. “I’m Mariana Allen. Miss Piggy over there is my husband, Jared. And that little booger is our son, Miguel.” Despite the bags under them, her eyes sparkle as she stares across the kitchen at her ridiculous husband making an assortment of barn noises to their son, who’s giggling in hysterics.

“Devin.” I give her hand a firm shake.

“Welcome to the crazy,” she adds under her breath.

“Thanks.”

Jenny grabs my hand and pulls me out of the kitchen, throwing a “Watch the pot roast,” over her shoulder. After a chorus of grumbling, she whips around. “You know the rules. You can help or you can starve.”

“What about him?” Jessie’s youngest brother pipes up, pointing at me.

“James Benjamin Allen, we do not point fingers in this house.” James’ finger wilts, his hand dropping to his side. “Devin is our guest. And to make up for being so rude, you just volunteered for dish duty.”

Jessie lets out a loud laugh and points at her youngest brother. Jenny’s unforgiving gaze falls on her daughter.

“Jessica Bridget Allen. Thank you for volunteering to help your brother.”

Jenny grabs hold of my hand again, tugging me out of the kitchen. We’re not two steps away when Jessie’s soft voice squeaks, “Crap.”

Jenny turns to me, her lips in a tight line. “I swear, despite appearances, they weren’t raised in a barn.”

With flawless timing, Jared belts out an ear-piercing donkey’s hee-haw. Mariana and I bust out laughing.

“Oh, for Pete’s sake,” Jenny sighs, throwing her arms up in defeat.

I follow her into the living room and sit down next to her, where she pats the couch.

“Tell me about yourself, darling.”

I clear my throat. I’m a tattooed auto mechanic who barely finished high school. The son of an abusive felon serving twenty years for aggravated assault, his third strike. I’m not the guy a mother picks out for her only daughter. “Not much to tell, ma’am.”

Jenny tilts her head. Her face is soft and her features inviting. It’s a warmer welcome than I was expecting. Than I deserve, considering I’ve been making a point of driving her daughter crazy for the last few weeks.

“I somehow doubt that,” she says. “Tell me about your family. Your parents still together?”

I swallow hard, my hands balling into fists at my sides. “No. My mom ran off a long time ago and my dad’s in prison. Will be for the rest of his life, I hope.”

Jenny hums with a simple nod. It’s acknowledgment without judgment. “Brothers and sisters?”

“A sister, Rebecca. Becs.”

“Older or younger?”

“Younger. She’s graduating high school this year. Got a bunch of different scholarship offers too. She’s smart as hell.” Warmth fills my chest, picturing the only decent member of my family.