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Her brows pull together. “Working?”

“Thanksgiving leftovers video,” I explain. “I need one perfect pumpkin pie for the opening shot.”

“It’s a leftovers video.” She scoffs, indignant on behalf of all pie everywhere. “Isn’t being partially eaten kind of the point?”

“After I film it.”

“This is why people hate control freaks,” she mutters, and her chin tips up a fraction, which is the pre-trigger to her next very poor life choice.

“Touch the plastic wrap and find out.”

Her fingers creep toward the handle, hover there, then retreat half an inch as she weighs the pie against the spatula I’m no longer pretending not to hold.

“Jubilee.” She smiles. Oh, fuck.

Before I can move, she yanks open the refrigerator and hooks one finger beneath the plastic wrap.

I catch her around the waist.

“Gage—”

I plant her solidly over the counter. The spatula lands across her ass once. Then twice. A third for the blatant disrespect shown toward tomorrow’s content.

She wriggles and squeals, scandalized and delighted. “Pie fascist.”

“Domestic terrorist.”

“Pastry dictator.”

“Coaster anarchist.”

Marzipan sits on the island, watching us like a tiny divorce attorney who has already decided neither parent is fit for custody.

Jubilee tries to glare at me for another three seconds before she cracks. Her laugh spills across the kitchen, bright and helpless. I catch a shine in her tongue, confirming she has her piercing in tonight, though I don’t know why.

I let her go. She snaps her head up, turns in my arms, and tips her face up to mine. “You know what?”

“Dangerous beginning.”

“Did I tell you yet what I’m most thankful for? Surprise! It’s you.”

That shuts me up. My lips tug into a grin just before she hooks two fingers into the waistband of my jeans, entirely too pleased with herself.

I raise a brow. “Oh, are we doing this now?”

“You started it with the spatula.” She bites her lower lip.

“Nice try, pie-thief.”

“Attempted thievery.” Her fingers find the hem of my shirt.

I catch her wrists before she can lift it. “I’m thankful for the knife.”

She blinks. I’d swear those ridiculous fairy lights turn her eyes to amethysts. “Instead of mace or pepper spray?”

“Obviously.”

“Mmm…” She slides her fingertips along my torso. “I’m thankful for shovels, roadkill, prime numbers, and shrubbery.”