“Remember the dumpling,” he says, though he’s flushed again. “And never forget this. As much as I want your respect, you never, ever live your life to make someone else happy. You got me?”

He stares me down, he expression as earnest as I’ve seen it. Lump in my throat, I nod. He nods too.

We eat in silence for a while, ordering a plate of steamed pork buns. Around us, Chinese New Yorkers chatter and slurp up dumplings with a deftness that makes me and Dad look like bumbling amateurs. At the front-window counter, an old guy makes stunning little bundles of food art, occasionally yelling in Mandarin to the hostess by the register.

I soak it in, relish my meal. Four years I spent in the South, playing the part of college party girl. It was fun, but here in New York? I feel at home. I love this city. It hums through my veins and makes my heart beat. And I’m going to leave it. Because I want something more.

I’m about to tell my dad this when he speaks again.

“I’m…ah…seeing someone.” Okay, he’s definitely pink now. “Genevieve. She does PR for the Hawks.”

Just like that, I’m grinning. “It must be serious.”

Dad tilts his head in acknowledgement before slurping down a soup dumpling. “She moved into the house,” he says after a moment.

“Good. I don’t like the idea of you rattling around in that big place alone. Just, please tell me she isn’t my age.”

Dad rolls his eyes. “Nice, Fi. And you accuse me of giving you shit.”

“Sorry.” It was a low blow.

“She’s only five years younger than me. Is that acceptable?” He’s not smiling, but I can tell he wants to.

“Yeah. Of course. I was being a shit.”

“Wouldn’t be my daughter if you weren’t.”

It’s my turn to duck my head in embarrassment.

“So what are you going to do next?” Dad asks.

“Dex.”

Dad rears back. “What?”

“Shit. No. I mean…” I bite on my lower lip before getting it over with. “I’m seeing someone too. Ethan Dexter.” Worst segue ever, even if it was probably correct. I really can’t wait to do him again. And again. Shit. I’m blushing now.

Dad stares at me for a long moment, his nostrils slightly pinched, then grunts. “Dexter, eh? I kind of thought you’d fall for a chef or some sort of arty type—“

“Thanks, Dad,” I say, not bothering to clarify that Dex actually is arty.

Dad doesn’t pause. “But he’s a good choice.”

I blink. “Really? You think so?”

“Why not? You like him, don’t you?”

“Of course.”

“He’s steady, quiet, honest.” Dad rubs a hand over his face. “Not too thrilled about the idea of you ‘doing’ him, but we’ll just pretend that was never mentioned.”

I bury my head in my hands. “I know. God, I suck at basic conversation with you.”

Dad laughs. “No shit.”

“Can we move along now?” I ask from the safety of my hands.

“Sure.” He falls silent, and I lift my head to find him studying me. “So is he the real deal?”

I’m the one who feels shy now. “Yeah, dad. He really is. So much so that I’m going to claim him.”

I cringe again. I meant it figuratively, but it probably isn’t something my dad wants to hear. I’m better off stuffing my mouth with dumplings and not talking again.

Fortunately Dad just nods. “One less thing.”

I don’t know if he’s right, because the fact is, there are things I need to tell Dex too, and I have no idea how he’s going to take them.

Chapter Thirty-Three

FearTheBeard: Can we Skype?

CherryBomb: On it like a bonnet.

FearTheBeard: Gonna take that as a yes.

CherryBomb: :-*

I confess, I fix my hair and put on some lip gloss and mascara before I Skype with Dex. Okay, I change my top too. No way am I wearing my frumpy, knee-length t-shirt with Princess on the Streets, Ogre in the Sheets across the front. Thank you, Gray, for yet another Fiona-themed birthday gift.

Instead, I wear a casual white tank and leave the bra off. If I can’t see Dex every day, I have to make the times we do connect count.

A flutter of anticipation goes through me as I settle down on my bed, my laptop propped on a pillow. Seeing him this way is a treat and a torture. No matter how good it is to talk to Dex, when it’s all done, I close my laptop alone.

Even so, I grin like a loon as soon as his face comes into view. Damn, he’s fine. Tanned from practicing in the Southern sun, gold highlights streaked through his brown hair. Dex will never be a pretty boy; his features are too strong, his body too big and built. His eyes, however, are devastating and beautiful—and as always, they shine when he sees me. The way he looks at me is addicting. It’s everything.

My voice is breathless. “Hey, Big Guy.”

The corner of his lush mouth lifts. “Hey, Cherry.” His voice is tired and strained, and it hurts not to be with him.

“How are things?” I know full well he’s being hounded by the press, stalked by women—the idea of which I hate enough to gnash my teeth. I ask because I want him to unload his problems on me.

He swallows visibly, and his entire body seems to deflate. “Not great, Fi.” Slowly he lifts his head, as if it weighs a ton. “My privacy is nil at the moment.”