Page 16 of Patrick

She nods as if she understands, and maybe she does since she has three older brothers herself. “What about your younger brothers?”

“The twins, Rory and Liam, are like their own island, and Daniel is too young. I wouldn’t confuse him with talk about complicated relationship issues, let alone allow him to take sides.” My older sister automatically comes to mind, and I know immediately and confidently that she would one hundred percent support me. But it’s the last thing I’d want to put on her. She has enough on her plate to deal with every day.

“Kathleen will understand,” Fifi says. “She has a kind soul. I know she⁠—”

“I wouldn’t burden her with taking sides.” My voice is firm, and she doesn’t push it.

“Then you’ll have to appeal to your mom for support.”

I smile at her because she’s clever how she’s bringing me down this dangerous road one step at a time. She’s also right about my mother. Mom’s always been the moderator in the family—or the referee if things get too crazy. She helped Connor through the Holiday Hunk Auction debacle when Carmela bid on him and made it clear to both families how she felt—hell, made it clear to the whole town. Now Connor hardly ever comes home, staying with Carmela. He steers clear of everyone, but mostly avoids their old man, Rossi Senior, and their oldest brother Frank. Even so, Mom hasn’t had to deal with anything this serious from me, not since I was born.

“Maybe.” I don’t make any commitment partly because it’s not my thing. But also, the last thing I’d want to do is cause friction between Mom and Dad.

My stomach growls, and I pick up one of the burgers, needing the distraction, needing to look at something else besides Fifi’s face. She takes one of my pickles like she’s entitled, and I don’t stop her, feeling more amused than annoyed. It may not seem like much, but I’m protective of my food coming from a family of six hockey-playing brothers.

I glance up at her. The shit-eating grin on her face widens as she bites into the pickle, making it a sensual gesture.

“You never let people steal your food,” she says.

“How would you know?” I’m not as surprised as I should be that she gets it.

“I’m observant.”

“I’m observant too,” I say, pinning her stare with mine. “For instance, I happen to know for a fact that you don’t even like pickles.” I give her a look that tells her I see what she’s doing.

She laughs and drops the remainder of the pickle back on my plate. “Touché.”

“You expect me to eat that?” I tease, my heart pumping faster because something about eating a pickle she’s taken a bite of tempts me like a teenager visiting a brothel.

“Yes. No need to worry about my saliva all over it because your mouth and my mouth are going to be exchanging all kinds of saliva. Soon.”

My mouth goes dry like it’s clearing out for a taste of her saliva, of her lips, her tongue. Shit. My pants tighten around the crotch as my dick starts looking forward to all the tasting I’m going to do.

“Be careful what you wish for.” I croak out the words.

“You be careful of what you’re going to get.” She stands, picking up her tray and pushing back her chair in a move equivalent to a mic drop.

“I don’t have your number—” I grab her hand to slow her down as she walks by me.

“I have yours.”