Mom was curled on the sofa, blindly flipping channels with the remote. I sat cross-legged on the floor, pretending to watch a sitcom rerun, but my mind was centered entirely on Henry. He lounged in his leather recliner, his eyes hidden behind the newspaper.

"Pass the popcorn, Fiona," Mom mumbled around a mouthful.

I grabbed the bowl and twisted around. For a split second, my gaze locked with Henry’s over the edge of the paper. A dark, possessive heat flared in his stare before he casually looked away.

"Here." I handed it over.

She took it, her fingers absently brushing mine. "Thanks, sweetie. Let’s find that true crime documentary next."...