Chapter 28
Hannah
Connor moved through the kitchen like a ballerina, every motion deliberate as he danced to the tempo of his precise timeline.
“Do you even have time to breathe?” I asked, watching from the doorframe.
“Yes. I have it scheduled for eight o’clock tonight.” He didn’t look up from whisking the red wine jus. “But don’t worry, I have time set aside to kiss you in—” He glanced at his watch with exaggerated seriousness. “Forty-two seconds. So don’t go too far.”
I huffed a laugh. Of course he’d plan his kiss strategy down to the second.
True to his word, when his watch hit the mark, he stepped away from the stove and towards me. His hands framed my face, warm from working over the heat, and he kissed me thoroughly, like he had all the time in the world instead of eighteen different things timing out in the next hour.
“Merry Christmas, Hannah,” he whispered against my lips.
“Merry Christmas.”
He pulled back, studying my face for a moment before returning to the stove and adding butter to the jus, whisking in smooth circles.
His preparation had been going on for two days now. Yesterday morning, I’d found him standing in front of the pie cooling on the rack, eyes unfocused. When I’d touched his arm he’d startled like I’d woken him from a dream.
“It looks just like hers,” he’d said quietly. “The lattice.”
I hadn’t known what to say to that. What do you say when someone has shaped their grief into pastry to hold in their hands?
“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. Tell me something, maybe.
That I mattered. That we mattered. 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.”
“That’s all Connor.” I led them toward the kitchen, where Connor was sliding a tray of hors d’oeuvres into the oven.
He wiped his hands on a towel as Teresa set her wine on the counter. “Oh my god, are those stuffed mushrooms? Can I steal one?”
“They need four more minutes.” Connor checked his watch. “But I made extra phyllo cups.”
He was so calm. So in control. Meanwhile, my hands shook as I opened the wine Teresa had brought.
The doorbell rang. My parents.
Connor stepped closer immediately, his hand settling on the small of my back, warm and steady, and he murmured, “It’s going to be fine."
I wanted to believe him, I did. But my stomach churned with the premonition that this was how it all fell apart.