Feeling as if she’d let them down and hurt their feelings, Frankie stared at the table. What Caz said was the truth, but it wasn’t what they needed or wanted to hear.

Bull lifted their clasped hands, resting them on the table. “Sweetheart?”

Why could she deal with everyone else in the world, but not her family? She hadn’t changed her mind, still wanted to stay, but her family had decided different. And was making their claim on her clear.

Did she want to start this fight here, in the restaurant? “Bull, it’s not…”

His black eyes captured hers. “So, when we have children, you’re going to tell them they must work at Bocelli’s, whether they want to or not. Even if it makes them unhappy.”

“Of course not.” Her answer came a second before her brain told her that she’d just opened the can of worms she wanted to handle in private.

“I fear you don’t understand,” Mama said, her voice frozen.

“Ah, the ice queen,” Frankie heard Caz say under his breath.

“We supported our daughter in college with the understanding she’d return to work for the company.”

Actually, that’d never been stated. Just understood.

“Ah, many of my friends in the medical professions have done the same as Frankie—accepted help, then worked in a less…pleasant…work environment for a couple of years.” Caz smiled at Frankie. “Is your two years not up yet, chica?”

If she wasn’t totally in love with Bull—and if JJ wasn’t usually carrying a gun—Frankie would kiss the doc right on the mouth.

“I’m not sure when I should start counting.” She tapped her fingers on her lips. “Should it be at twelve when I started helping after school. Or when I worked there every weekend in college? Or just the four years I’ve worked there after I got my MBA?”

There was silence around the table.

And, okay, she was done with this. “However, if you think I still owe you, then send me a bill, and I’ll pay you back. We’ll pretend it was a loan.”

“Wait—does that mean I’d have to pay you back for the money you’ve given me?” Birgit asked, appalled.

“No. No, you do not. None of you do.” Her father rubbed his face. “This is a night for uncomfortable insights, is it not?”

“Uncomfortable?” Anja said. “You mean hearing that we’ve all been shitting on F—on Frankie. Because we can.”

“Anja! Language,” Mama snapped.