Devon has the grace to wince before I can even answer.
“You’re joking, right?”
He hurries to explain. “Apparently he had no idea Enzo and I are such good friends. When I told him I know Enzo as well as you . . .”
I nearly choke on an almond. The fact that our father doesn’t know Devon’s been tight with Enzo since the second grade is a pretty good example of why I want nothing to do with the man.
“He said it would be great if either of us could approach Enzo.”
“I hope you’re kidding. You aren’t actually thinking about asking Enzo for a loan for a man who abandoned you? Us,” I clarify.
Devon shakes his head. “No. That would be ludicrous.”
The first logical thing my brother has said all night.
He scratches his head. “But it’s not exactly a loan he’s asking for. He has a business venture, an idea he’s been working on for years, apparently. Some kind of natural health drink. So it’s more of an investment.”
I don’t dignify this discussion with words. Instead, I finish my salad, concentrating on the faint sound of Frank Sinatra’s crooning in the background. The DeLucas have some sort of unnatural fascination with the guy, Enzo included.
“So there. I told you. I promised him I’d at least do that.”
“And you did.”
Maybe that’s not the most tactful response, but I’m with my brother. I don’t have to be tactful.
“Do you know how many ‘investments’ Enzo gets pitched on a weekly basis? How could you even entertain the idea of helping that man, Devon? He cheated on Mom and then vanished, literally.”
Devon winces. “Unlike you, I don’t have it in me to hang up on him.”
“Actually, I only hung up on him once.”
Devon frowns. “You know what I mean.”
“Yes, I do.”
“Honestly, that’s it. I don’t expect you to talk to Enzo. I don’t plan to either. And I agree with you that it’s ballsy of him to ask. But I promised I’d mention it, and I did. So now we can move on.”
“That’s it? For real?”
Devon nods, smiling like a six-year-old on Christmas. “That’s it.”
I’m cautiously optimistic. “That was,” I hesitate, not one hundred percent sure Devon is finished, “fairly painless.”
“Told you. Want another drink?”
I shake my head. “No, thanks. I still have some papers to grade and don’t want to wait for an Angel pill.”
He gives me a look that tells me he’s not yet done with the serious stuff. “This won’t be the only request, you know.”
My stomach turns at the thought of it. “From Dad?”
“No, just in general. People are going to keep approaching you. Asking you for things. Asking for a piece of his time.” He sighs. “Honestly, Char, I hope it works out between the two of you. I really do. You know I think Enzo is a great guy . . .”
Just like Mom. Just like Lusanne. But again, there’s a big but in there somewhere.
“But?” I prod.
“But it’s not like dating the head coach of Bridgewater High.”
I give my brother the death glare. The last thing I want is to be reminded of my last failed relationship.
“I mean, there’s a picture of you floating around in a newspaper.”
I finish with my salad, putting my fork down and eyeing up Devon’s chick parm.
“Trust me, I know,” I say. Which is only partially true. I’ve thought about the press, sure, but not about the possibility that people might try to use me to get to Enzo. Still, I’m not sure why Devon’s rolling out his big brother speech now.
“And he lives in New York.”
I roll my eyes. “No shit, Sherlock.”
He’s managed to maintain a friendship with Enzo after all these years. Is it so unrealistic to think I can do the same?
Although it’s not really the same thing, and I know it.
I don’t dare say it to Devon, but I am in love with his best friend. All the way. He’s just as good-looking and caring as the boy I loved when I was younger, but a new confidence has been added to the mix that’s downright devastating. And the occasional glimpses through it, to the bits of vulnerability that still exist in him? Even more so.
Not to mention, he likes me. Really, really likes me, if last weekend was any indication.
Sorry, Dev, it’s too late for caution. The love train has already left the station—it’s currently barreling down a hill without brakes.
Like it or not, I’m in deep. With luck, we won’t need those brakes and the train will slow down on its own, taking a more leisurely path to its destination. Because the alternative is a fiery crash that will no doubt consume us both.
30
Enzo
“The reports from Europe are in your inbox, sir. And I’ve moved your two o’clock meeting to one, as you asked. I’ll have your car here at two fifteen.”
I look up for long enough to thank my assistant, but I’m buried in emails again before she even closes the door behind me. I don’t look up until Hayden, now standing behind my desk, clears his throat.
“Jesus. You scared the shit out of me.”
He drops a package in front of me.
“Grab two waters.”
I look at the wrapping from our favorite deli and shake my head. “I can’t stop for lunch. I have a meeting at one, and I’m heading to the lab this afternoon.”
Hayden doesn’t move.
“The fact that you didn’t even notice I’d entered your office is exactly the reason you need to stop for five minutes.”
I look longingly at my computer screen.
“Enz.” Hayden nods to the refrigerator behind me. Reluctantly, I stand up. No matter how many times I tell myself to do this more often, inevitably I end up hunched over my desk for too long. Stretching, I reach down, get two waters, and hand one to Hayden.
Opening the package, I groan at the smell of tuna salad, suddenly starving. I reluctantly smile at him. “You know me,” I say.
“Too well.”
We eat in silence, the afternoon and long evening ahead looming over me.
“Did you see the Europe reports?” I ask. “I haven’t looked at them yet.”
“Yeah,” Hayden says after he finishes chewing. “That’s part of why I thought you’d be in a more cheerful mood. It’s better than we hoped for.”
That surprises me. “What makes you think I’m not in a good mood?”
Another mouthful of egg salad prevents Hayden from answering.
“I’m fine. I’m just frustrated by our lack of progress at the lab.”
After a swig of water, Hayden says, “You said yourself this was different, that the distillation would complicate things.”
I did say that. But still . . .
“It’s frustrating. Yesterday I met with Fred Gulerri.”
Hayden groans. Neither of us is a fan of Fred, but he’s the owner of one of the largest restaurant chains in the U.S. that serves alcohol, which makes him one of our biggest clients.
“He’s pressing me,” I say. “He’s impatient for—”