Page 29 of Forty, Flirty & Fake-ly Yours

"Is that an invitation?"

Her hands still over the pan. When she looks up, there's something in her amber eyes that makes my normally busy brain go quiet.

"Maybe," she says softly. "Would you want it to be?"

Before I can answer, my phone buzzes. On the screen, a message from Emily Hanning:Mr. Dixon, regarding your relationship with Ms. Carpenter...

I minimize it quickly, but not before Rosalind sees. "Problems?"

"Nothing I can't handle." I move closer, ostensibly to help with the cooking. "You never told me how you ended up at La Famiglia in the first place."

She's quiet for a moment, focused on stirring the vegetables. "Christmas morning, five years ago. First holiday after my divorce. My parents were... well, let's just say they had opinions about failed marriages. I was wandering downtown, feeling sorry for myself, when I smelled Nonna Flora's cooking.”

"She does Christmas morning service?"

"For anyone who needs a place to go." She adds the beaten eggs to the pan with practiced ease. "That morning, it was me, three international students, a retired bus driver, and the Gallos. We ate Italian desserts, drank too much coffee, and somehow... became like family."

Something in her voice makes me want to step closer. So I do.

"You're good at that," I observe. "Making families. Building connections."

"Better at it for other people than myself, apparently." She reaches past me for herbs, and suddenly we're standing very close. "Some things can't be calculated, you know."

"Like what?"

"Like chemistry." Her eyes meet mine. "Timing. The way two people just... fit."

For a moment, a vision pops into my head—sudden and warm. I can picture it. My hand on Rosalind’s waist. Her fingers curling into my shirt, and…

"Sir," CORA announces, "based on current proximity and elevated vital signs, I calculate a ninety-seven percent probability of imminent physical contact. Would you like me to run a relationship compatibility analysis?"

We break eye contact, and I clear my throat, turning away.

"CORA," I start, but Rosalind's phone chooses that moment to blast what sounds like bagpipes playing... is that "My Heart Will Go On"?

"Oh God." She checks the screen. "It's Dani. Apparently, Duncan and Angus know each other from the International Scottish Pickling Championships?" She accepts the call. "Dani, slow down. What do you mean they're having a fermentation duel?"

I step back, trying to regulate my breathing while my traitorous AI helpfully displays my current heart rate on the kitchen window.

"Sir, would you like me to calculate the statistical probability of successful relationship outcomes based on shared cooking experiences?"

"CORA, mute."

The frittata, somehow, survives our moment of... whatever that was. We eat at my breakfast bar, talking about safer topics like Connor's latest startup idea (AI-powered dog walking) and Alex's engagement party crisis.

"No synchronized swimming?" she asks, hiding a smile.

"Apparently, fish have opinions about underwater choreography."

"You know..." She takes a sip of wine, and I definitely don't track the movement of her throat. "Mac would probably lovesomething simple. Good food, family, maybe some actual dancing instead of flash mobs..."

"Is that another invitation?"

This time when she meets my eyes, there's no AI to interrupt. "Maybe it is."

My phone buzzes again. Another message from Emily Hanning.

"I should go," Rosalind says, standing. "Early client meeting tomorrow."

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