Page 67 of Forty, Flirty & F*cked

"Especially with the experimental cooking." He tugs me closer. "It's... real. No pretense, no agenda. Just people being themselves."

"Even when ourselves involve half-burnt Italian cuisine.”

“Let’s just say it’s a good thing La Famiglia does delivery.” His thumb traces circles on my palm. “I am curious about one thing…”

“And that is?”

“Who helps you with your dad?"

I blink. "What do you mean?"

Connor shrugs, too casual. "You handle a lot—your career, your family, everything in between. I imagine it takes a team."

I let out a short laugh. "A team? Not exactly. It’s mostly me and my sisters, and we make it work."

"But no one else?" His fingers skim my palm, thoughtful. "No extra support?"

"We’ve always managed on our own."

Connor hums, like he's filing that away for later. "That’s a lot to carry."

“I’m used to it.”

I don’t tell him the rest of that sentence.

That I've been here before.

The careful logging of medications. The tracking of good days and bad days. The desperate need to control something, anything, when everything else is slipping away.

I've been handling medical calendars since I was twelve, learned to spell 'acetylcholinesterase inhibitors' before I learned algebra. I know exactly how many steps it is from the kitchen to the bathroom in every house we've lived in because Mom used to get lost, used to need...

"I can handle it," I say instead.

"Of course you can." His voice is soft but firm. "But there are…options. Options that don’t involve doing it all yourself.”

My breath catches. Not ‘you should get help.’ Not ‘you need help.’ Just... a suggestion, a thought that reads as ‘maybe you don’t have to be alone in this.’

And the way he says it—like he’s already decided, like he’s already standing beside me in ways I haven’t figured out how to accept—unsettles something deep inside my chest.

“You certainly have a lot opinions on this,” I tell him, clearing my throat.

“Of course I do. What, you only thought I had really strong feelings about proper pancake technique?”

I laugh, but it comes out shaky. "And syrup temperature."

"And syrup temperature." His lips brush mine. "Come flying with me?"

I pull back. "What?"

"Right now. I got a text.” He holds up his phone. “Need to get my hands on my IPO documents, and the help is fueled.” His stormy blue eyes narrow in my direction. "The city's beautiful at night, and I have a meeting across town anyway..."

"You're crazy."

"Probably. Is that a yes?"

This is exactly another instance when using the word ‘no’ would come in handy. When maintaining any kind of professional boundary would be appropriate.

When I shouldn’t be considering a late-night helicopter ride with my boss who's also technically my husband who's also currently looking at me like I'm everything he's ever wanted.

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