“This is so bad, Noah,” she says, with a hint of respect.
“I’m wearing this to my next shareholder meeting,” Dad announces, pressing the shirt against his chest.
“Daniel, you absolutely will not—” Mom starts.
“I’ve already decided,” Dad says, folding it carefully.
Then he grins at me and pulls me into a hug. “Thank you, son.”
We talk for a little while as the two cooks move quietly around us, finishing the last of the serving dishes. When they’re done, they exchange a few words with Mom, smile politely when Dad thanks them, gather their things, and slip out the front door with a soft click.
It’s just the four of us now.
Mom looks around the room once, as if confirming everything is still exactly where she wants it, then turns to Dad. “Daniel, will you grab the wine from the kitchen? I think we have time for a glass before the others arrive.”
Dad gives her a quick blank look, then seems to catch up. “Right. Wine.”
He disappears through the doorway, and Mom follows him almost immediately, pausing at the threshold. “Makeyourselves comfortable,” she tells us, gesturing toward the sofa cluster at the far end of the room.
Then she vanishes too, the kitchen door swinging softly shut behind her.
Connor and I exchange a look.
“Wine?” I whisper.
“Are we being managed?” he asks.
“Almost certainly,” I say, dropping onto the sofa. “There’s a talk coming. I can tell.”
Connor sits beside me, close enough that our knees touch, and leans back with that easy calm of his I find both comforting and infuriating. He drapes one arm along the back of the sofa, which means that if I lean back even an inch, I’ll basically be tucked against him.
The room goes quiet around us, candlelight flickering over the table, and for a moment it’s just the two of us and the distant murmur of my parents’ voices through the kitchen door.
“You’re doing that thing again,” Connor murmurs.
I turn to look at him, my cheeks going hot for no good reason. “What thing?”
Connor watches me, a faint smile on his lips. “The one where you look like you’re about to flee the country.”
I snort.
“I know my parents,” I say. “When they go whisper in another room, it means something’s coming.”
Connor glances toward the kitchen door. “Should I be scared?”
“Yes.”
The corner of his mouth curves up. “You’re very tense, baby. Come here.”
He pats the back of the sofa where his arm is resting, and my cheeks get even hotter.
Jesus. Why is it so flustering when he calls me baby? I know he’s just teasing me. I know this is part of the act.
Still.
“I’m not tense,” I say, then immediately lean back like a liar.
Connor’s arm wraps around my shoulders, pulling me into his side, and the contact knocks an involuntary sigh out of me.
