“Then what was up with that marinara you made me and Lock?”
Wiping his mouth, he sat back in his chair and took a sip of his beer. “Don't laugh, okay? Barb tried to teach me to cook, but I was kind of a jerk about it. Finally, out of exasperation, she said any self-respecting man at least knew how to make a decent marinara.”
“How old were you?”
“Sixteen. She'd struck the right chord. At that age, I needed to be seen as a man.”
“But nothing else stuck?”
He shrugged. “Nope. I suck at pretty much anything that doesn't come in a bag, can, or box.”
“Technically, that’s cooking. Or heating shit up. If you can feed yourself, you’re doing okay. Better than nonstop takeout.”
“Can’t afford nonstop takeout.”
Bristowe drank from her own bottle of beer. “Is having Lock there going to fuck with your wallet?”
“He starts work tomorrow, and we worked out an agreement on bills. If my bills go up, he’ll pay whatever the difference is. And he’s agreed to split the cost of groceries.”
“Wow, you’re generous.” Picking up her sandwich, she watched him from across the table.
Something prickled behind his eyelids, and he blinked it away. “I need to help them. It’s ingrained in me somehow, I guess. Lock has to save money fast so he can get a two-bedroom apartment. If I can help him with that, I will.”
“It’s one of the reasons I love you, Flynn.”
Grinning, he tried, but failed, to hide his pleasure in a bite of sandwich. “I love you too, baby.”
Chapter Twelve
Life with Bristowehad turned out to be pretty close to perfect. Flynn knew it was quite possible the whole thing was a flash in the pan, dying out to bland warmth once the heat had worn off. But Jesus, he was prepared to enjoy the ride while it lasted. Everything had to change Sunday night, back to reality and jobs and all the other bullshit, but they had one more today together before all that. Bristowe had this fantastic idea—in her mind—for how they should spend their day.
She wanted him to meet her dad. Flynn had never met anyone’s dad in his life and barely knew fuck-all about his own father. The closest thing he could claim was Mitch, and while he was a pretty good foster dad, he wasn’t flesh and blood. He embodied the idea that you choose who you consider family, which was how Flynn had lived much of his life. But to have that connection, that family tree, the person who actually gave you life still sticking around and giving a shit . . . that was foreign as all hell to a foster child.
It was important to Bristowe, so it would be important to Flynn. He would swallow his insecurities and do it for her. He wanted to make her happy, and meeting her dad was the easiest way to accomplish that. It didn't cost him a thing except a minor freak out. She was worth it. Totally worth it.
“Ready?”
