While I might not fit the entire June Cleaver mold, considering I have my own business, it’s the style I adopted so I could hold on to that comforting idea of family values and morals. Plus I love dresses, but I don’t mind sliding into a pair of jeans once in a while, possibly more often if this is the kind of reaction I get.

“I thought I heard the door. Oh, Miss Cupcake! When Ronan said he was bringing a friend I didn’t realize it would be you.” Ronan’s grandfather ambles slowly toward us. “What a pleasant surprise.” He grins, and his eyes almost disappear under his bushy brows. I would guess he’s somewhere around eighty. He’s a few inches shorter than Ronan, although I’m sure he was closer to the same height in his younger years, before his shoulders rounded.

“Hi, Mr. Knight. I hope it’s not an imposition.” I’ve met Ronan’s grandfather a couple of times in passing, and we’ve exchanged hellos and an introduction, but I’ve always been busy during the day and he’s never been around by the end of the evening.

“Not at all, dearie. And you can call me Henry; no mister anything is necessary, or Gramps works if yer comfortable with that.” He winks and clasps my hand between his gnarled fingers. “I wondered when my grandson would finally find his balls and ask ya out on a date.”

“Really, Gramps?” I can practically feel Ronan’s embarrassment.

“What? She’s been all you can talk about for months, riles you right up and puts a smile on yer face. It was bound to happen when ya got yer head outta yer ass.”

“Okay, Gramps, you’re killin’ my game.”

“Is that Ronan?” Another man appears in an adjacent doorway. Based on his facial features, he’s definitely one of Ronan’s brothers. He’s shorter than Ronan, but just as broad and athletic, with the same hair and eye coloring, except he has a little gray flirting at the temples. “’Bout time you got here!” He pulls his brother into a hug, and they exchange firm back pats. He lowers his voice, keeping Ronan close. “Celia’s still got freaking morning sickness, so she can’t help with shit. And Leslie thinks every single cookie needs to be uniform in shape, so we’ve only managed one damn batch. All I want to do is drink scotch and eat cookies. Help a brother out.”

“I’m on it, don’t worry.” Ronan pulls me into his side. “And I brought reinforcements. Daniel, this is Blaire, and she can bake every single person here under the table.”

“Hi, Blaire.” He extends his hand. His palms are soft, like the most strenuous thing he does is swing a golf club. “Ronan didn’t mention having a girlfriend at Christmas.”

“Oh, I’m not his girlfriend.” I glance at Ronan.

His gaze meets mine and he shrugs with a questioning expression. “Well, I mean…”

“Am I your girlfriend?” It’s an actual question, because riding his metaphorical bologna pony doesn’t necessarily mean we’re a thing.

“I brought you to a family function, so that generally means I wouldn’t have a problem introducing you as my girlfriend.”

Daniel snorts, and Gramps’s smile widens.

“I invited you to a family function when you and I were barely civil to each other.” I’m not sure why I feel the need to bring this up, because all it’s doing is making this awkward situation even more awkward, since Daniel and Gramps are ping-ponging between us, watching this go down with something like gleeful amusement.

“Yeah, but we had a connection right from the start. And you invited me because you felt guilty, so it wasn’t an actual date. And come to think of it, I was a shield more than anything.” Ronan’s grinning, like he finds this entire thing entertaining as well.

My cheeks heat at his instant-connection reference since he’s correct, even though I was determined not to find him sexy, at least when he was being inflexible and breaking my unicorn glasses. “You weren’t a shield. It was a spur-of-the-moment invitation, and yes I felt some guilt, but that wasn’t the sole impetus for asking you to come along. I mean, look at you.” I motion to his casual attire, which consists of a long-sleeved shirt, pushed up to expose half of his forearms, and his dark wash jeans. “You’re not exactly hard on the eyes. And while you were certainly a convenient distraction from my family’s lunacy, it wasn’t the dominant motivating factor.”

Ronan cocks a brow. “I see how it is. You just wanted to objectify me.”

I shrug. “Didn’t hurt to have someone nice to look at while the insanity ensued.”

Daniel claps Ronan on the shoulder. “You’ve finally met your match. This is so great. Just don’t get hitched before Aiden and Leslie, or she’s never going to let him live it down, and it’ll be the rest of us who suffer.”

Ronan gives him a what the hell look. “Thanks for making this introduction not awkward at all, Dan.”

“I’m here for you, bro. Now please get your ass in the kitchen so I can eat some damn donuts.”

“Watch yer language in front of Blaire,” Gramps warns. He’s been quietly standing off to the side, hands clasped in front of him, rocking back on his heels. Until the profanity anyway. Now his expression is adorably stern.

“It’s fine, Henry.” I put a comforting hand on his arm and wink. “I’m a big girl; I’ve heard all the bad words.”

He pats my hand. “Oh, I’m sure you have. And they’re not donuts, they’re New Year’s cookies. Dottie could nae stand it when the boys called them donuts. Drove her batty. Rest her soul.” He makes the sign of the cross and blinks a few times, eyes shadowed in sadness for a moment before they clear. “Come, dear, let’s get you a drink.”

A full bar is set up, and I opt for one of Ronan’s beers, because they’re delicious and if I sip it slowly I won’t have to worry about getting tipsy too fast.

We find Leslie and Aiden in the kitchen. This time Ronan introduces me as his girlfriend, and I don’t dispute him. Aiden pulls Ronan in for a hug. “Thank God you’re here, man. Save me, please.”

Leslie looks frazzled and like she would rather be doing anything other than standing in front of a pot of boiling oil.

The kitchen probably hasn’t been renovated since sometime in the nineties if I had to guess based on the cabinets. There’s a new stainless steel stove, fridge, and dishwasher, though. I’m assuming either Ronan or his brothers were responsible for the updates to bring his grandfather into the twenty-first century, at least from an appliance standpoint.

I survey the counter, the giant bowl of dough, the variety of adds-ins in the form of cinnamon and sugarcoated apple chunks, chopped dried fruit, and raisins. “Oh! It’s oliebollen!”

“Huh?” Everyone in the kitchen turns to look at me.

“Oliebollen. Mennonite New Year’s cookies. They’re the same thing. I loved these as a kid!” I motion to the spread.

“You know what these are?” Leslie asks. She sounds somewhere between hopeful and desperate.

“I haven’t had them since I was a teenager, but definitely. My grandmother was Mennonite.”

“Seriously?” Ronan’s shock is actually reasonable.