Page 32 of The Rookie's Sister

“Hands-down best lasagna in the five boroughs. Secret family recipe.”

As Jeff takes his place at the table, Emma steers me down the hall for the promised tour. We pause in the cozy living room with its overstuffed couch and shelves crammed with sports paraphernalia and weathered paperbacks—an eclectic blend of Emma and Jeff’s interests. Evening sunlight filters through gauzy curtains, washing the room in a comforting glow.

Emma gives my arm a teasing squeeze, noticing me taking it all in. “Not exactly a state-of-the-art bachelor pad like yours, I know.”

I nudge her playfully. “It suits you. I like it.”

And remarkably, I mean it. My own sleek high-rise condo suddenly seems cold and hollow by comparison.

“Only the best for you.” Emma’s eyes dance. “Come on, time for the Thompson family dinner extravaganza.”

Around the cozy dining table laden with food, the conversation flows easily. Lasagna is heaped on plates and passed around along with garlic bread still steaming from the oven. I sip Emma’s preferred Syrah and relax into my chair. No cameras, no prying reporters’ eyes—just good wine and better company.

Halfway through the meal, Jeff clears his throat. “So, that last practice—”

Emma shoots him a quelling look. I guess she doesn’t want shop talk tonight. But I find myself curious about the rookie’s perspective.

“You were saying?” I prompt.

“Oh, just that the pocket collapses so fast on that last play during practice. I know Coach wants me to hold strong, but I am getting pummeled.” He shakes his head. “Still getting used to taking those heavy hits.”

I nod slowly, thinking it over. “The NFL is not college football. It’s tough finding that balance between holding your ground and knowing when to bail. But you’ve got good instincts, kid. You’ll get the timing down.”

Jeff sits a little taller, soaking up the praise.

Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Emma watching us, a curious little half-smile on her lips. Warmth coils in my stomach and it has little to do with the amazing food.

Charlie clears his throat then, redirecting the conversation to a story about his fishing misadventures upstate. I sense Emma’s relief as the topic shifts away from work.

I study the easy dynamic between Emma and her father as the meal wears on. Their banter and inside jokes hint at a deep bond forged over years of shared memories. I think back to my own distant relationship with my father, more surface-level conversations than heart-to-hearts. Envying what she has here—this warmth, this intimacy.

As Charlie regales us with a tale about the water heater explosion of ‘13, his eyes crinkle fondly at Emma. “Sweetheart, remember how you try to fix the pilot light yourself and singe off both eyebrows?”

Emma buries her face in her hands, laughing. “Ugh, Dad, do you have to tell that story?” But she glows under his attention.

Warmth swells in my chest, seeing this new side of Emma emerge. Not the stylish psychology assistant with clipboards of stats and performances, but someone’s daughter. Someone’s entire world. It stirs a pang of longing inside me I don’t expect.

The rest of the meal passes in a blur of good-natured ribbing and family lore. Full and satisfied, I help clear dishes and stack them neatly beside the sink. Emma’s hand brushes mine as she takes a plate from me, sending a spark skittering up my spine. Judging by the gleam in her eyes, she feels it, too.

“Thanks for sticking around to help clean up,” she says. “You’re off the hook now if you need to head out.”

I lean back against the counter, not ready to leave just yet. “And miss this Thompson family fun? Not a chance.”

Emma’s eyes soften. She glances over her shoulder down the hall where Jeff is engrossed in a replay analysis with Charlie.

“It means a lot, you being here,” she says quietly. “This whole fake relationship thing feels pretty silly now.”

I hook my finger under her chin, gently turning her face back to mine.

I don’t even hesitate. “It doesn’t have to stay fake. Honestly, being here, seeing where you come from, helps me understand you better.”

Emma studies me for a long moment, lips parted. Our faces hover inches apart, the rest of the world fading away. All I see is green and gold, as brilliant as jewels.

Then she rises on her toes and kisses me. Soft and sweet, lingering. It’s almost chaste, but it still turns me on. Hell, just being around her turns me on.

We break apart at the sound of Jeff’s footsteps approaching and rush back to the safety of the dishes. But the sensation of Emma’s lips clings to me for the rest of the evening, warm and right.

Later, as I slip on my coat to leave, Emma walks me to the door. We pause on the stoop, the bracing night air rushing to fill the space between us.

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