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“What a year they’ve had,” I say to him as we walk inside, discussing my second favorite topic—football. As we open the door, the smell hits me. Instead of the drying incense from the clinic, it’s now an eye-watering amount of spice. The aromas are already sinking into my skin.

“Dahl is ready!” I hear Daisy’s mother call out as we walk down the hall, and I swallow, having no idea what I’m in for. But as I spot Daisy setting the table, seeing her move around the house, looking beautifully carefree, I realize that there’s nowhere else I want to be.

Even if I burn my insides with some very spicy darrrrlllll.

32

DAISY

“Ithink they liked me,” Connor says from the driver’s seat. The light sweat from the spicy dahl is now gone from his brow, as is about a half gallon of milk he had to drink to tame the burn in his mouth. But he ate it all, never once complained, and I may have fallen for him a little harder with every bite he took.

My mom adores him, probably because he’s the first guy I’ve brought home. My dad was surprisingly welcoming as well. That makes this all so much harder. He has three people's hearts and feelings now. If this ends, the heartbreak is going to be gut-wrenching. But, thinking positively, I’m now fully stocked with dahl and tea and herbs and all sorts of things that I hope we can fit on the jet for our trip back. At least that’ll bring me comfort.

“You bribed my dad with tickets to see the Jets,” I say, rolling my eyes as he grins.

“I didn’t bribe him.” Connor scoffs before he laughs. My grin is instant.

“You offered, very generously, for him to come to your suite. I call that a bribe.” I love how we both had such a great day, and it was just a simple meal in a simple house with my parents.

“Potato, potahto,” he mumbles, making me giggle, my usual quip rubbing off on him.

We hit traffic as we get back into the city and turn to drive down toward his penthouse, and I notice he begins shuffling in his seat.

“What’s wrong?” I ask, sensing a change in the air. Before he can answer, a motorbike speeds past us. A guy on the back has a camera, his lens pointed at us. I frown, looking around and seeing a few others behind us as well.Paparazzi. They’re like bees, swarming the car, and Connor’s need for concentration increases.

“What’s going on?” I ask curiously, wondering if there is a celebrity nearby.

“They’re trying to get photos,” he grits out, his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel as we’re now almost back to his building.

“Of who?” I wonder if Tom Cruise or George Clooney are in a car beside us or something.

“Of us,” he says as we turn the corner, and I see the parking garage up ahead. When his words sink in, I nearly balk.

“What?” I look at him like he’s being ridiculous.

He glances at me, looking remorseful. “Sorry, I should’ve warned you.”

“Why do they want photos of us?” It’s the most ridiculous thing I’ve ever heard.

“They try to get me when they can, knowing I’m not here all the time. I don’t keep a consistent schedule of when I'm in the city, which helps alleviate the invasion slightly. But they saw us leave earlier, and seeing that I’m with a woman, they’ve come circling for blood.”

Suddenly, I’m just as uneasy as he is.

As we slow down to enter the parking garage, flashes start to go off, as there are media standing on the sidewalk, watching us, cameras up and aimed. This whole thing is new and completely bizarre, and my heart races as nervousness takes over.

After we drive through the gate, it closes securely behind us, and we make our way down to his private basement, the people and flashes now long gone.

“What will they publish?” I ask, trying to figure it all out.

“Well, did you search me up online before you came to Whispers?” he asks as he parks the car and shuts off the engine, turning in his seat to look at me fully. I bite my bottom lip, the answer clearly written all over my face.

“Most people do, it isn’t a big deal. But I would say most of the images and gossip you found online came from situations like this. People taking photos when I’m unaware, and then making up the story to suit their narrative to sell magazines or have as clickbait.”

“So there will be photos of me and you? In the car?” My privacy now feels violated.

“Yes. They’ll probably accompany a speculative headline about the new woman in my life.” He releases a heavy sigh. “I’m sorry. I should’ve better prepared you for it all.” Reaching over, he grabs my hand and gives it a squeeze.

“It isn’t your fault,” I tell him, because it isn’t, and now, I’m wondering about all the things Trisha and I saw when we looked him up online and how much of it is probably fake news.