Page 56 of Ripped

“Yeah and I told him that. But he wants to double-triple check.” Connor falls still in my arms. “He’s asking if Miles is coming with me.” His voice is strained.

I pull away from Connor so I can lean my hip against the counter and see his face. He’s frowning at his phone and his shoulders are an inch higher than they were a second ago.

“I’m telling him now,” he says quickly. His eyes flick to me, then back to his phone.

I didn’t expect Connor to have told his family about me. I’ve only just told Phyllis and Leonard, after all. Our relationship is still delicately new, even if it feels like we know each other on a much deeper level already.

“Um, so…” Connor slides his phone back into his pocket. He takes the open jar of tomato sauce and pours it carefully on top of the turkey. “Would you… what do you think about… maybe, possibly coming with me? For the weekend?”

He’s nervous and it’s so endearing. He can’t even meet my gaze. How can I say no to an invitation like that?

To be clear, the prospect of going through the whole “meet the parents” routine doesn’t scream fun to me. I haven’t gone through that since Phyllis and Leonard and that was almost two decades ago. A trickle of insecurity runs down my back. What will Connor’s family think of me? I’m so much older than him. Widowed. We skipped over all the normal stages of dating and dove straight into living together.

What will happen if they don’t like me? What will happen if I don’t like them? I guess we’ll find out.

“I would love to.”

Connor’s head snaps up. “Really?”

I chuckle at how wide his eyes are, like he can’t quite believe his ears. “Did you think I was going to say no?”

“No, I mean, I don’t know. Maybe?”

I drag him to me for a kiss, slow and sweet, punctuated with a tang of the tomato sauce he tasted straight from the pan. “If you want me there, I’ll be there.”

“I want you there.”

Connor’s food is simple, yet delicious. Or maybe that’s just because I’ve had nothing but hot sodium water for the past couple days. Anything will taste better than canned soup. I still think it’s good though, especially because of the chef.

After eating, I leave Connor in the kitchen to clean up while I go back to bed for a nap. I might not have a fever anymore, but even a couple hours of sitting around are enough to zap my energy. When I wake up, Connor’s sitting in that armchair again, hunched over, neck extended, face illuminated by the light of his laptop. I grimace at the sight. My back twinges from watching him sit in that position.

“Doesn’t your back hurt like that?”

Connor looks up and pulls his headphones down around his neck. He bends to one side, then the other. “Not really. Well, maybe a little?”

A sigh falls out of my lips. “Oh, to be young again.”

He laughs and elbows the cushion behind him. “It’s a comfortable chair!”

Yeah, I know it’s a comfortable chair. I’m the one who bought it. But it’s not meant to be used the way Connor’s using it, and his back and neck and shoulders and everything are going to be angry with him in a couple years.

I push myself off the bed and grab my bathrobe from the foot of the bed. “Come on,” I say, holding out my hand.

I lead him down to the second floor and the door that I’ve kept closed for the past four years. I put my hand on the knob, take a deep breath, then push it open. Roger’s office looks exactly the way it did the last time I was in here. Unlike the last time though, I don’t feel that crippling pain in the middle of my chest anymore. My lips curl into a smile and I step inside.

“This was Roger’s.” I run my hand along the giant desk he found at an antiques fair. It was almost too big to fit through the doorway. All his management books are still on the shelf. Our smiling faces are tacked to the corkboard on the wall.

There’s a photo that was taken at a birthday party. I can’t remember whose and I can’t remember which year. We’re young though, and we’re happy. It doesn’t hurt when I look at it, only that touch of bittersweetness.

I turn to Connor who’s still hovering in the doorway. “Do you want it?”

Connor’s brows draw together. “Want what?”

Look at him, so sweet. “The office, darling. It can be yours for when you’re working from home. Or when you need a quiet space to write.”

Connor’s jaw drops to the floor. His gaze darts from me to the desk to the chair to the bookshelf and back. “Are you serious?”

I can’t take it. He’s too cute. His eyes are so big. He can’t seem to keep his mouth closed. He’s like a kid who’s been given free rein in the candy shop.

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