He cheated i chose two firefighters novel Chapter 172

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Natalie’s POV

I am so nervous. Over the last couple of weeks, Dylan and I have texted, talked, and gone on dates. He is so attentive, sweet, and charming. He talks about his brothers constantly, and I do not mind. I enjoy hearing about them. I am glad I have a face to match the names. I chuckle thinking about the time I showed Scar the picture of all three of them after the weekend we returned to Montana to pack all my things. Discussing meeting the guys with Mama Cici helped me make the final decision to spend Thanksgiving with them.

I feel I somewhat already know them from how much Dylan discusses their personalities and the things they have done over the years. The impression I get from Dylan still has me thinking he wants to share me with his brothers. He has not come out and said anything yet, but I am waiting for it. I have thought about it, and maybe after I meet them, if we get along, I could reach a decision about that, so when he asks I can answer him immediately.

I told Dylan I wanted to drive over to his place. I did not want him to have to drop everything to come and get me, and a small part in the back of my mind thought, if his brothers despised me, I could simply leave.

I pull up and park. I pull down the visor to check my face and hair. I am no longer wearing my rainbow braids; I had them taken out when I got back from Montana. I hope Dylan likes my new look. Today I have straightened my hair so it falls to my shoulder blades. It is silky and shiny, half off my face and tied at the back. I am wearing a beige wrapped jersey dress with nude pumps. My makeup is light, with brown eyeliner and mascara that makes my honey–colored eyes pop, and a nude lip with the slightest pinkish hue.

I take a deep breath. “Here we go, girl.”

I get out of my car and go to the passenger door. I open it and take out the pumpkin bars I made. I am not the greatest cook, but I know how to cook a great breakfast, a great roasted chicken, and a great Thanksgiving meal because it is my favorite holiday. Pumpkin bars are my specialty.

I walk up to the door and knock. I only wait a few minutes before the door opens, and my mouth goes dry. Standing in front of me is Clayton. I recognize him from the picture. He must have recently gotten a haircut. He has the military buzz cut style. High and tight. His face is clean–shaven, showing off his chiseled jaw, and I cannot wait to tell Scar that his eyes are green, not hazel, but a light green like cat eyes. He is gorgeous.

“Hi,” I breathe out. My heart is beating a million miles a minute. I hold up my pan of pumpkin bars as if I am making an offering to the God standing before me. “I made pumpkin bars.”

“Did you now? I love pumpkin,” he says, in a deep velvet voice.

A face pops out from behind him, and the body that comes with it shoves Clayton aside.

“Where are your manners, you Oaf? Let the pretty lady in. Hi, I’m Logan.”

I giggle at his goofy behavior. “Hey, I’m Natalie. I brought pumpkin bars. Baking isn’t really my strength, but I can manage these–and chocolate chip cookies,” I say as I step inside and trail after.

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Logan. Clayton follows close behind me, and I glance back over my shoulder at him. He gives me a small smile, yet I catch his eyes drifting over my ass without missing a beat.

“Dylan, she’s here,” Logan announces as we head into the kitchen. Dylan is pulling a casserole from the oven. A massive turkey rests on the counter, ready to be carved, and beside it sits a bowl of mashed potatoes with an adorable little gravy boat. On the opposite side of the kitchen, two pies sit on a small table near the dining table.

Dylan sets the casserole on the stovetop and smiles at me. Then he comes to me, cradles my face in his hands, and kisses me.

“You look gorgeous, little mama. What did you bring?” he asks, gesturing toward the foil–covered pan.

“Pumpkin bars.”

“You didn’t need to bring anything, baby, but I appreciate it. I know everyone will enjoy them,” he says. He takes them from me and carries them over to the table where the pies are displayed.

“That’s our dessert table,” Logan explains. He stands beside me wearing a courteous smile. I glance at Clayton, and he fixes me with those sharp green, cat–like eyes.

“Come on, baby, sit at the table. Everything’s ready, and Clayton will carve the turkey in a minute,” Dylan says as he leads me to a seat.

Logan settles to my left, and Dylan brings the food over, arranging everything in the center of the table. The place settings are neat, with white plates stamped with fall leaves. We’re using gold–toned forks and knives, and both wine glasses and water glasses are already waiting. Clayton carries in two bottles of wine and a pitcher of water. After that, he brings the turkey over, and Dylan passes him the carving utensils. Logan turns to me with a grin.

“So you’re not going to help?”

“I’m not allowed to. I only get assigned the job of setting the table.”

“Logan tends to drop food, so we don’t let him handle any of it,” Dylan says.

“It’s like I do it without thinking–some kind of reflexive rebellion,” Logan adds. “Something from when I was younger makes me act out with food, but I don’t remember what happened.”

I nod. Alright then. “In my senior year of college, I wrote a piece for my journalism class about trauma responses. Dropping food could be a coping mechanism–something your brain does to snap you out of a flashback after a trigger. Your mind might be interrupting an episode before it fully begins. It happens sometimes with people who were abused as children.”

All three of them just stare at me. Then Clayton and Dylan glance at Logan like something clicks into place.

“Little mama, you really are one smart cookie,” Dylan says with a smile. Logan lights up with pride, and Clayton keeps his gaze locked on me. Did I say something that pisses him off?

Dylan clears his throat and gestures toward the turkey. Clayton picks up the carving tools and starts removing the skin. I watch closely, completely absorbed, as he lifts off large sheets of skin and places them on a smaller plate. After that, he slices the turkey and stacks the meat onto a large platter.

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“Does someone actually like turkey skin?” I ask.

“No. None of us do,” Dylan replies.

I stare at them, stunned. That’s the best part.

“Would you mind if I took all the skin, then? It’s seriously the best part.”

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Dylan smiles at me and gives a nod. He picks up the plate and hands it over. I can’t stop myself from grinning like a kid in a candy store. I love turkey skin and chicken skin, and I eat chicken hearts too. Scar thinks I’m insane back when we live together. I buy whole containers of gizzards just so I can dig through them for the hearts, then bake them alongside my chicken.

<He Cheated, I Chose Two Firefighters