Chapter 1
Enzo
“Don’t look now. Three o’clock.”
Which is the one thing Hayden could have said to guarantee I do look. That’s human nature for you. Or at least it’s my nature. Someone tells me not to do something, and you can guaran-damn-tee I’ll do it anyway. And worse, he knows it.
Even in the dimly lit restaurant, I can see Giovanna clearly, and our eyes meet because she’s staring straight at me.
“Shit,” I mutter, looking away. “She caught me looking. There’s no way she’s not coming over now.”
Hayden makes a sound that I can easily decipher after more than ten years of his antics. It’s somewhere in between better you than me and I’m going to thoroughly enjoy this.
“If I can’t navigate this,” I whisper as the restaurant owner’s daughter starts sidestepping through the tables to reach us, “say goodbye to Wednesday dinner. She’s getting more and more aggressive.”
Hayden’s drink pauses midair. Eyes narrowed, he waits to see if I’ll forgo diplomacy just for the sake of sticking it to him. It would serve him right for deliberately attracting the attention of the woman who’s been pursuing me for months.
But I’m no idiot—if I mess this up, we’ll lose out on the best Italian food in Tribeca.
“Evening, gentlemen.”
Regular patrons of Faustini’s are used to the owner’s daughter. But the two tourist couples sitting next to us openly stare at her. I don’t blame them. Giovanna Faustini is gorgeous in a way that turns heads, from her dark hair to her signature red lipstick. She’s a razor-sharp attorney who has nothing to do with her father’s business, yet she always seems to make an appearance on the one day a week Hayden and I frequent this small restaurant. It’s not a secret we eat here every Wednesday. When the press figured it out, we nearly had to find a new weekly dinner spot.
“Hi, G,” I say.
“Good evening, Miss Faustini. You’re looking lovely, as usual.” Hayden’s playing with fire, encouraging her with his tone. I warn him with a look, but he doesn’t take the hint.
“Congratulations on the Merrick settlement. Well done.”
Hayden hasn’t lost his touch with the ladies. He could charm the habit off a nun.
Giovanna smiles, but not at my friend.
She’s stunning. Smart. But nothing stirs in me as she flashes her pearly white teeth—a lovely contrast to her red lipstick. I could easily picture those lips wrapped around me, but still, nothing.
“Thank you.” She waves her hand as if such a high-profile victory were commonplace. The opposing counsel is considered the best in the business, his track record, off the charts. “So, Enzo.”
Here it comes.
“I hear you’ve just been approved in Switzerland. You must be thrilled!”
It’s obvious the comment is addressed only to me, never mind the fact that my business partner sits across from me.
“Quite. Hayden’s going there in a few weeks for the launch.”
My tone clearly communicates that the conversation is over. Most people respond to that tone, but G, as she insists I call her, is a pit bull. She won’t be put off so easily.
“Maybe a celebration is in order?” she asks. “This weekend, perhaps?”
Hayden bites the inside of his cheek to stop from laughing.
Asshole.
I lift my wine, the beginning of a polite but firm dismissal. “Unfortunately, I’m out of town this weekend.”
“Oh? Somewhere good, I hope?” she says, dropping into an accent she sometimes pulls out like a pair of expensive shoes. She might be second-generation Italian, but G was born here, not in Italy.
“Home,” I say. “For the opening of my brother’s restaurant. Please give your father my compliments on the risotto. It’s especially good tonight.”
I don’t intend to answer any follow-up questions, so I bring the wine glass to my mouth and take a long sip, pointedly shifting my attention to Hayden. Finally, after an excruciating few seconds, she walks away.
“Home?”
Screw a sip. I might need another glass.
“I thought you said you weren’t going?”
The bell over the door rings, catching my attention. The old-school bell is a nice, kitschy touch—a sign that despite the red velvet cushions and chandeliers, Faustini doesn’t take himself too seriously.
Except he definitely takes his daughter seriously. Did she leave? Did I offend her with my borderline rudeness?
One of these days, I’m going to piss off Giovanna enough that she complains to her father. And I really, really don’t want that to happen.
Wednesday night at Faustini’s is the bright spot in a week filled with work and more work. According to everyone I know, I work too much. They’re not wrong, but I don’t plan on stopping anytime soon, which is the exact reason I planned to miss my brother’s opening. I really can’t afford to take time off, but the guilt train conducted by my mother and occupied by my brothers and sister, not to mention Hayden, has been gaining steam these past two weeks.
“I wasn’t. Changed my mind.”
Hayden takes a bite of mushroom risotto and groans. His overdramatic enjoyment of food hasn’t changed a bit since college, except now his performance involves slightly more refined food than the ramen noodles we lived on back then.
“Seems kind of an extreme way to avoid a date with G.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I see her coming from the kitchen. I’m relieved that I didn’t drive her away after all, and even more so that she doesn’t look our way.
“Maybe, maybe not.”
He cocks his head. “And maybe you should just do what every other red-blooded male in this restaurant wants to do with her.”
“Everyone except you.”
Hayden can’t agree with a mouthful of risotto in his mouth, but I know it’s true. The fact that my best friend and business partner is now a married man surprises everyone, me most of all. He’s a far cry from the sex-obsessed frat boy I befriended. Sometimes it’s still hard for me to wrap my brain around the fact that he’s a father. And a damn good one at that.
Hayden mumbles an affirmation and continues eating.
I lean back, sneaking another look. Why don’t I take Giovanna’s not-so-subtle invitation? I haven’t been on a date in two months, though not for a lack of prospects.
The kind of money Hayden and I have accumulated these past few years tends to attract women. Lots of them. Just not the right types.
“No, thanks.” The decision is an easy one. I enjoy her father’s cooking too much.
“Your mom will be happy you’re going home.” Finally dropping G as a topic of conversation, Hayden smiles. “Tell her I’m sorry to miss it.”
“You do know Tris is the one who’s opening the restaurant, right?” I say, seeing the subject away from my mother. Though he’s not wrong.
Mom was appalled to learn I didn’t plan on attending the opening.
To her, family is everything. Work is, at best, a very distant second, multibillion-dollar business or not. Tristano’s decision to follow in the footsteps of our father, a pizza shop owner, and open DeLuca’s II Ristorante is a big deal.
“Congratulate him for me,” Hayden says. “Don’t forget to tell everyone I would have been there if I wasn’t out of town. And be sure to mention I was the one who reminded you that work and success mean nothing without family and friends.”
I roll my eyes, deciding not to explain that he had nothing to do with my decision. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m going. But seriously, you of all people should have been on my side. With the vodka problem and all, work is crazy right now.”
“No business,” Hayden reminds me.
It’s been our one rule since we first started these weekly dinners. We talk business 24/7, but not on Wednesday nights.
I finish my wine and lift my chin to the waitress to bring another drink.
“No business,” I agree, doing my best to shove thoughts of vodka and formulas out of my mind. “I’ll tell them,” I add, looking forward to seeing my family even though I already know I’m in for a tongue-lashing for having stayed away so long. “But if I don’t come back, you know where to find me.”
“At the bottom of Lake Shohola. You Italians scare me sometimes.”
All jokes aside, while I might not be wearing concrete boots by the end of the weekend, there is zero chance I’ll make it out of Bridgewater unscathed.
Chapter 2
Chari
“Cheers.”
Groaning at my brother’s overly cheerful tone, I clink glasses with him anyway. A blast of cold air hits me from behind, and I curse for the millionth time this winter.
“I heard that,” Devon says.
“I didn’t say a word.”
“Yes, you did.”
“Who’s winning?” the bartender asks my brother. Being one of Devon’s good friends, he knows about our current bet, and probably the dozens that came before. It’s something we do when we’re bored, which apparently happens a lot.
“You seriously have to ask?” I quip.
Mike reaches for an empty beer glass on the bar.
“I don’t know, Devon set himself up pretty good on this one.”
I try, and fail, not to smile. It’s totally true. I might complain about the winter weather every three seconds, but my brother is an infamous man-whore. This is one bet I could win, even if Devon keeps picking the closest seats to the door. Every time it opens, a blast of February air makes me bite my tongue.
My brother’s a man-whore, and a sometimes asshole.
But he’s also one of my best friends.
“So how exactly do you know Devon isn’t having sex?”
That’s the deal. I don’t complain about the weather. Devon doesn’t score a home run with one of his many dates. Whoever breaks first buys the loser a meal. Not very high stakes unless you count bragging rights, which, of course, we do. Of course, it’s hilarious to think of Devon bragging about not getting laid.
“I trust him.”
“Pfft.” Mike clearly doesn’t think that’s such a good idea.
Devon glares at Mike across the bar. “Maybe have my back instead of stabbing it?”
“Maybe have mine and get me a date with your sister.”
Mike makes comments like that pretty often, and given that he has an on-again, off-again girlfriend, I’m pretty sure he just does it to rile Devon up. My brother scowls as Mike takes the glass and heads to the tap.
“You are never dating my sister.”
I’m not. Mike isn’t my type. But that’s beside the point. Devon doesn’t speak for me, and I’m annoyed that he keeps trying.
“What if I suddenly decide I’m into edgy bartenders covered in tats?” I ask when Mike is out of earshot.
“Not funny.”
Dammit. Another blast of cold air hits my back. I should have gone with my gut and stayed home to Netflix instead of dragging myself off the couch a few hours after crashing on it. I love my third graders dearly, but teaching them all week doesn’t lend itself to late nights out on Friday.
“I wasn’t kidding,” I say and then take a sip of my beer.
Devon doesn’t know yet, but it’s going to be an early night for me. One and done. The only reason I agreed to let him drag me out was because he was coming to The Wheelhouse, which feels a lot like hanging out at home. My brother has already informed me this is just the first stop on this rodeo. He has a long night planned with his friends.
“Let’s table that forever,” he says. “New topic. Guess who’s coming in this weekend?”
“Hmmm?” I try to think of any out-of-towner friends who might be visiting. “No idea. Tell me.”
“Hey, Chari. Hey, Devon.”
I spin on my stool. Our doctor, also an old family friend. And only two years older than me. Colleen has always been a prodigy. Homeschooled in high school, she was skipping grades and attending medical school when her classmates were still getting drunk every weekend in college.
“Hey, Coll.”
I’m tempted to pull her aside and ask her about the smoke I’ve been smelling lately—Google suggests it might be a brain tumor—but I hesitate, trying to be mindful of the fact that Colleen has no more desire to work on a Friday night than I do.
“You want to ask her,” Devon says under his breath. And maybe he doesn’t outright laugh, but it’s obvious he wants to.
“Seriously, I’m telling you it’s true. It happened again last night.”
Unlike my brother, I still live at home. But I’ve resisted the urge to tell my mom about the whole smoke thing. Like Devon, she thinks the only health problem I have is an incurable case of hypochondria. I caved and told him about the smell anyway, something I now regret.
“When I’m in the hospital having brain surgery, you can apologize then.”
“Mmm-hmm.”
Devon is too busy looking at Colleen’s backside to listen.
“You know, she’s single again,” I taunt, mindful of our bet. Besides, Colleen has had a thing for Devon since, well, forever. It would be cool to see my brother date someone he actually likes.
“Not gonna work.”
Ugh, would people stop opening the door? I really need to get out of the Northeast. Bridgewater might be adorable, especially in the fall, and lots of people would probably love to live in a small lakeside town, but every winter the weather seems to get colder and colder.
“I’m not going to say anything about the cold, but can we please move down there?” I point to the other end of the bar, turning my back to the door.
Devon ignores me, ordering yet another drink. If he weren’t drinking Angel’s Brew, I’d be giving him a lecture right about now, asking about his designated driver for the night. But not anymore. Not thanks to . . .
“Enzo’s coming in.”
Enzo?
I try not to react. Devon watches me like a hawk, as he always does when his BFF comes up in conversation. And it tends to happen often. The fact that Angel, Inc. was cofounded by someone from our tiny town is basically a daily discussion.
“Wow.”
What else is there to say? I haven’t seen my former crush in years. Except on the news. Or when I social media stalk him. At least I’m not alone. Pretty much everyone wants to know what Enzo DeLuca is up to.
“Yeah, I know. Cool, right? I haven’t seen him since last summer.”
“When he flew you to the Bahamas on his partner’s family jet?” My brother was so impressed by that jet that he talked about nothing else for weeks afterward. Seemed a bit excessive to me, as if there weren’t a million flights from New York to the Bahamas.
Whatever.
“I talked to him last night. He’s coming in for the opening.”
Which makes sense. His brother Tris is finally opening his restaurant after talking about it for as long as I can remember. Unlike my own family of three, the DeLucas are like their own little gang. Enzo is the only one who moved away permanently. His brothers, Gian and Tris, and his sister, Lusanne, all remain in Bridgewater, most of them working for the family business in some capacity.
How many meals had I eaten at their home, envying their big, joyful family? I’m more than grateful for our own little tribe of three, but there’s just something about the DeLucas who have invited us, Mom included, to more meals than I can count.
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