To Brooklyn, With Love (Completed) - Finding You Book 2

Brooklyn

Time passes so quickly; it's incredible and terrible at the same time. It feels like just days ago Sophie was lost in the stadium. Now she's sitting on my lap trying to braid my hair.

"Is this right, Brook?" she asks with an adorable smile I've come to love over the last few months.

"Yeah, sweetheart," I smile. "That's actually really good,"

"Yes!" She says, throwing her arms around my neck and pulling me into a hug. "Thank you for teaching me! I'm gonna wear it like this at the picnic today!"

She hops off my lap and runs into her room, and I'm left alone at the kitchen table with a mug of steaming coffee and my thoughts. Today is the Reid Family Thanksgiving picnic, a tradition I've never heard of, but can't wait to experience, even if I am a little nervous. This is our first family event since our relationship stopped being fake. I've gotten along with Layla from the start, but now that things are getting real with Harrison, I actually want the rest of them to like me, too.

"I'm gonna set up the deep fryer," Harrison calls out, jogging down the stairs in a thick pair of dark grey sweats and a Phillies hoodie. He's barefoot and his hair is sticking up every which way but straight, but he's out the back door before I get a chance to really enjoy the view.

I bring my coffee to my lips and watch him hop around in the frost covered grass. His breath puffs out around him until even he can't take it anymore, and he retreats to the house with his hands balled together in the pocket of his hoodie.

"Cold?" I ask with a smirk, eyeing his red nose and cheeks.

"Hell no, baby," he smiles, pressing a kiss to my lips. "Feels good,"

"You feel good," I say quickly, grabbing a handful of his sweatshirt and pulling him gently with me as I back up toward the counter. I lean up on my tip toes and kiss him quickly once more before spinning around and pulling a mug from the cabinet and filling it with fresh coffee.

"You're an angel, Brooklyn. An actual saint," he says as he brings it to his lips. His eyes float across the recipe books and piles of casserole dishes on the counter and he freezes. He's got that look I've come to know so well, and I'm immediately suspicious.

"Oh god. What?"

"Nothin', baby," he shrugs. "You've just got a lot going on in here right now. What time did you get up?"

I eye the clock on the wall. It's 8 am. and I've already got two pies in the oven.

"I don't know. Like 6?" I try but he frowns and shakes his head. "Okay fine. 5,"

"Five a.m.?!" he chuckles. "You're gonna be falling asleep in your mashed potatoes," he teases, setting his mug down. His leans in, trapping me against the counter between his arms.

"Not with as cold as it's supposed to be," I quip. "I won't be able to hold my fork with my mittens on,"

"Toughen up, buttercup. It's all part of the fun. Plus, it's gonna be almost 50 degrees. Last year we were out there in much worse,"

"So what you're saying is, everyone will be too cold to care how good the food tastes, so I'm worried about nothing?"

"What I'm saying is, you've never made a bad meal in your life, and the second my family tastes your corn casserole, they're gonna be pulling out my great grandmother's ring and putting it on your finger for me,"

I stick my tongue out at him. He's kidding, I know. Things have fallen into place pretty easily since we've been him from Paris, but we're a million miles away from marriage. I'm happy where we're at.