“I hate this entire situation.”
“You say that every time you’re emotionally threatened.”
I stare at her. “You’ve known my father for six hours.”
“And yet I’m already correct about both of you.” The knock comes moments later. I open the door before Elena can.
Frank stands in the hallway in a charcoal overcoat with one hand wrapped around the neck of a wine bottle and the other holding a paper bakery bag from my favorite Italian place downtown. His silvering dark hair is still damp from the weather outside, glasses tucked into the front of his sweater. And for one stupid second, relief hits me hard enough to sting. Because he’s my dad. Just Dad. No title attached.
“Hi, sweetheart.”
“Hi.”
His eyes move over my face immediately, reading me in the muted way he always has. “You’re tired.”
“Apparently everyone has decided that tonight.”
“You have shadows under your eyes.”
Elena appears behind me. “Frank,” she says warmly. “You’re handsome. This is excellent news for me personally.” My father blinks once. Then he laughs. Actually laughs.
“Oh, I definitely like her,” he says. Traitor.
Elena takes the wine from his hand with elegant efficiency. “Come in before Chicago kills us all.”
Frank steps inside slowly, taking in the apartment. The candles. The jazz playing softly from the speaker. My bag abandoned near the couch. Elena’s shoes kicked off near the kitchen island already because she claims real bras and hard-bottomed footwear are oppressive systems. Domestic. Which is a different kind of dangerous than romantic. My father removes his coat while Elena immediately starts talking to him like they’ve known each other for years instead of one FaceTime call and several dangerously flirtatious texts about pasta preferences.
“You brought red,” she says approvingly.
“You said you were making short rib ragu.”
“And you listened.”
“I was raised correctly.”
I move toward the kitchen before their chemistry physically injures me. “Can I help with anything?”
“No,” Elena and Frank both say at the exact same time. Then they look at each other. Then atme.
“Oh my God,” I whisper. Elena beams.
Frank clears his throat into his fist, suddenly looking suspiciously self-conscious. “You said she needed help cooking.”
“She did not,” I say immediately.
“I absolutely did,” Elena says over me. “I needed emotional support.”
“You threatened the garlic until it cooperated,” I remind her.
“It knew what it did.”
Frank’s mouth twitches. That tiny, almost-smile he usually hides from the world because officiating professional sports apparently conditions a person into emotional minimalism. Elena catches it too. And sharpens immediately. “So,” she says casually, “Antonia tells me you've been on the ice a long time.”
My father loosens his cuffs. “Twenty-nine years.”
“Mm.” Elena leans against the counter. “That explains the terrifying eye contact.”
“Toni says I’m intimidating.”
