Otho moved around the kitchen—his small, safe, lovely kitchen. He’d made it the way he wanted it. Everything was as it was supposed to be. He’d built the home he needed, and he didn’t need anyone else, didn’t need to share his hopes and dreams with anyone.
He brought out plate after plate from the refrigerator—the turkey, the Christmas tree-shaped breadsticks, the Brussels sprouts, the prime ribs, the salmon, and the rest of the Christmas food he’d made.
He began preparing the garlic roasted carrots Joslyn liked, the herb-roasted potatoes, and the goat cheese sweet potatoes he wanted to try when there was a knock on the door.
Joslyn didn’t wait for him to open, she never did, just stepped right in. “Hi, sweetie!”
Otho went to greet her and caught Mason staring at the two of them. “Josl
