“Your parents are arriving at four, right?” Connor asked now, breaking through my spiraling thoughts.
“Yeah.” My stomach twisted. Fifty-three minutes away. Fifty-three minutes until I had to sit there and pretend it didn’t gut me that they looked at me like I was a disappointment.
Although at least I had a lifeline—an interview with Victoria Blackstone in three days. My first real shot at getting back into the field I’d actually trained for, the work I’d loved before Sebastian and the whistleblowing and the humiliation of watching my professional reputation crumble.
But right now, my career anxieties felt almost secondary to standing in this kitchen watching Connor process his grief in the saucepan, bubbling alongside the jus, like it could evaporate in the steam.
This was him opening a door he’d kept locked for three years, honoring instead of avoiding.
And he was doing it for me. For my family. For this dinner that I’d been dreading and he’d somehow transformed into something that mattered.
“You didn’t have to do all this,” I said, pushing away from the doorframe.
He stared down at the phyllo cups like they held answers. “I needed to do this,” he said finally. “I needed to remember what it felt like. Cooking with her, learning from her. Before—” His throat worked. “Before the MS took that away from her.”
My throat went tight.
“And I want your parents to see that you’re with someone who…” His jaw clenched. “Someone who understands that you show up for family. Even when it’s hard. Even when it hurts.” His voice dropped lower. “Someone who thinks you’re worth the effort.”
Oh damn. I’d been so worried about my parents’ reactions, my own shame and anxiety, that I hadn’t fully understood what this meant. He wasn’t just trying to impress them—he was trying to tell them something. Tellmesomething, maybe.
That I mattered. Thatwemattered. That he was willing to unlock the parts of himself he’d kept carefully sealed away to show me I was worth it.
“Hey.” I squeezed his wrist. “It’s already perfect. You made three dozen hors d’oeuvres and a prime rib that smells like heaven. And your pie lattice is perfect, Connor,” I paused, making sure he was looking at me. “She’d be so proud of you.”
His breath hitched. Just slightly, but I caught it.
“I hope so,” he said quietly.
“I know so.” I slid my hand down to lace my fingers through his. “Can I help with something? Put me to work.”
He nodded toward the stove. “The béchamel needs whisking. If you stop, it’ll break.”
“I can whisk.” I moved to the stove, picking up the wooden spoon.
Connor reached around me to add a pinch of nutmeg, his chest warm against my back.
“Like this,” he murmured, his hand covering mine on the spoon, guiding the slow, even circles. “Don’t rush it. That’s what she always said—you can’t rush the good things.”
I was pretty sure we weren’t talking about the béchamel anymore.
I turned my head just enough to catch his expression—open, uncertain, hopeful in a way that made my chest ache. Grieving and brave and trying so damn hard to let himself want something again.
The door swung open and I jumped, nearly dropping the whisk.
“We’re here!” Teresa called. Boot stomping echoed in from the foyer, where Eddie added, “Merry Christmas!”
Connor pressed a quick kiss to my temple, tender and deliberate, before stepping away to pull the phyllo cups from the oven. “Want to greet them? I need to time these exactly right.”
Of course he did.
I headed for the door where Teresa shed her coat, balancing two wine bottles.
“Merry Christmas!” She kissed my cheek, lowering her voice. “You look terrified." She put a reassuring hand on my shoulder. “It’s not too late to dis-invite Mom and Dad, tell them to fuck off. Pull the plug, we’ll order Chinese and go to the movies.”
I smirked. It was tempting, but I couldn’t imagine leaving now. Not after all Connor had put into the meal.
Eddie pulled me into a bear hug. “Something smells incredible in here.”
