“We’re early,” Connor says, checking his watch. “Almost half an hour.”
“Mom will be happy either way,” I say, trying not to stare at how good he looks in that jacket. “Though she’ll probably put us to work setting the table.”
Connor smiles, and I have to look away. That smile does things to my insides that I’m not equipped to handle right now—especially when we’re about to spend the whole evening pretending to be in love in front of my family. My stupid heart can’t seem to remember this is all fake.
We step inside without knocking and find Mom in the dining room, hovering over two women in black dresses as they arrange the silverware. The table is pure Caroline Caldwell: crisp white tablecloth, gleaming china, crystal glasses catching the light from the chandelier.
“Noah! Connor!” She beams when she spots us. “Come in, come in!”
Connor’s hand slips from my back as we step fully into the room, and I miss the warmth of it immediately, whichis ridiculous. It’s not like I could’ve developed some kind of Pavlovian response to his touch in two days.
Except maybe I have.
“Noah, honey, you look so handsome,” Mom says, pausing her fussing to look at me. Then her eyes slide to Connor and widen. “And Connor—you look stunning.”
I smile and pray I don’t combust.
My mother has always been generous with compliments, but hearing her call Connor stunning while he’s standing right next to me in a jacket that makes his shoulders look like they were carved by a Renaissance sculptor nearly does me in.
Not that she’s wrong. She’s absolutely not wrong.
But could she be any more obvious about how thrilled she is that I’ve finally brought someone home?
“Thanks, Caroline,” Connor says, and I swear there’s a real blush on his cheeks.
That’s when Dad appears in the kitchen doorway, still fiddling with his cuffs, and Connor straightens beside me—that subtle shift in posture I’ve noticed on him before, like a reflex kicking in right before he makes an impression on someone.
It shouldn’t be as endearing as it is.
“Looking sharp, Dad,” I say.
He waves me off with a grin. A second later, he’s already crossing toward Connor. “Connor! Very elegant.”
“Thank you, Daniel,” Connor says, then takes the whiskey bottle from where he’s been holding it behind his back.
“Happy birthday,” he says, holding it out. “I wasn’t sure what to get you, but you can’t go wrong with a good Irish whiskey.”
Dad takes the bottle, and I watch his face change. A slight widening of his eyes, that particular stillness he gets when something genuinely surprises him. He reads the label twice.
“Midleton Very Rare.” He looks up at Connor. “I had a glass of this once, years ago. A client brought it into the office. I’ve never been able to justify buying it for myself.” He looks back down at the bottle, almost reverently. “This is extraordinary, Connor. Truly.”
And then he hugs him.
It’s not a handshake-hug, not the brief shoulder-pat variety. It’s a full, genuine embrace, one hand clapping Connor on the back. Connor looks startled for exactly one second before his arms come up and he hugs my father back, and something shifts in my chest that I’m absolutely refusing to analyze.
It’s stupid. It shouldn’t affect me. Connor is being a good fake boyfriend, doing exactly what a real partner would do. That’s all. There’s no reason for my eyes to sting. No reason for warmth to inflate behind my sternum like a stupid fucking balloon of happiness.
I look away and clear my throat.
“I also got you something,” I say, producing the wrapped package from under my arm.
Dad releases Connor, sets the whiskey down, and takes it from me. He tears the paper with the complete lack of ceremony that has always driven my mom slightly insane, then unfolds the T-shirt and mouths the words silently.
Dad Jokes Are How EYE Roll.
There’s a pause.
Then he tips his head back and laughs—genuine, full-bellied, the laugh he saves for things he actually finds hilarious. Mom comes to look over his shoulder, then covers her mouth to hide her smile.
