Page 31 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Thank you for saying yes."

"To dinner or to being your fake date?"

"Both." I stand too. "Though technically, as my temporary business alignment?—"

"Your what now?"

"—you're contractually obligated to attend social functions with me."

"Pretty sure that's not in any contract I signed." She stops. “By the way, thank you.”

“For sending the car that brought me here. For dinner. For…a lot.”

“You’re welcome.” I straighten. “Would you like me to personally escort you home?”

“No.” She shakes her head. “Your hired car is still waiting outside for me.”

“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. At work.”

She blinks. “Tomorrow.”

The one word hits harder than any of Alex's punches.

Because here's the thing about boundaries: they’re easiest to maintain when you're not constantly fighting the urge to let them slip.

Good thing I don’t make a habit of giving into my urges.

A damn good thing.

9

BETTER LIVING THROUGH ITALIAN FOOD

ARIANA

Two days after my dinner with Connor, Seattle's March rain has turned from gentle drizzle to biblical downpour. Perfect weather for overthinking life choices while clutching takeout containers from La Famiglia like they're emotional support animals.

The scent of garlic bread wafts up from the paper bags as I juggle them against my hip, fumbling with my dad's spare key. Water drips down my neck despite my umbrella's best efforts, and my heels sink into the soggy welcome mat that reads "Go Away, I'm Probably Napping."

Dad's house—the same modest craftsman I grew up in—looks exactly like it always has. The paint's peeling in places, the garden needs weeding, and the ancient wind chimes Lily made in third grade still clang discordantly in the wind.

"Dad?" I call, shouldering open the door. "I brought dinner! And your med schedule for the week! And a blood pressure monitor because the reviews said the other one wasn't accurate enough and?—"

"In here!" His voice carries from the living room. "Though if you brought another medical device, I'm staging a rebellion."

I find him in his favorite armchair, reading glasses perched on his nose, surrounded by what appears to be every medical journal published in the last decade.

"Dad." I set down the bags, hands on my hips. "What did we say about WebMD?"

"That it's a perfectly reasonable resource for?—"

"For giving yourself anxiety." I start unpacking containers. "Which is why I brought stress-reducing carbs. How are you feeling?"

"Like my daughter's about to interrogate me about my kidney function over pasta." But he's already eyeing the garlic bread. "Though I might be persuaded to cooperate for some of Nonna Flora's marinara."

"Wise choice." I hand him a container. "Now, any unusual symptoms? Changes in?—"

"Ariana Nicole Bristol." He accepts the food but fixes me with a look. "I'm fine. The transplant is fine. Everything is—what's that on your hand?"

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