“I heard the guest list is small. A very private affair.”
Enzo opens his mouth ever so slightly, making it impossible not to stare at his lips. “You heard correctly.”
As a long-time family friend, I was invited, but my flirting skills are subpar at best, and I find myself saying, “But since you invited me . . .”
His brows rise in a perfect imitation of some old-time Hollywood actor. “Did I, now?”
“You coming tonight?” I repeat. “To some, that might sound like an invitation.” I look at Lisa, who looks about ready to burst into laughter. “Did that sound like an invitation to you?”
Elbow on the table, chin in hand, she looks up at the most gorgeous man on this entire planet.
“Yeah, it kinda did. Sorry, Enzo.”
Last night, aside from asking me, twice, to stay, he didn’t seem fussed or flustered. I’d lain in bed hours after leaving the bar, picturing his expression, scrutinizing every word. And had come to the conclusion he thought of me the same way he always had, as Devon’s little sister.
But the chill that shoots up my back now tells a different story. Still calm and cool as you please, despite the fact that everyone is staring. But with just a tinge of . . . something more.
“Nothing to be sorry for, Lisa. It was an invitation. And one I very much hope Chari will accept.”
His eyes never stray from mine.
Good lord. He’s so hot it should be a criminal offense.
“Of course I’ll be there,” I say. “Wouldn’t miss it.”
My words sound casual, if not my tone, which I’ll take as a win. Because honestly, I’m finding it hard to put a coherent thought together.
“Good.”
He winks.
Which isn’t that unusual. Enzo DeLuca has winked at girls before. He even winked at me when we were younger. So why does this time feel different?
Because I’m losing it, that’s why.
“See you tonight.”
“Later, Lisa. Hope you can make it too,” he calls over his shoulder as he heads out. People flock toward him, some bold enough to ask questions, others just there to watch. I even catch one person snapping a photo. I can’t imagine living like that, under such constant scrutiny.
“What. The hell. Was that?” Lisa says.
Her words start to wake me from my stupor. I blink rapidly, then say, “Your omelette is getting cold.”
“You’re talking about my omelette?” She lowers her voice, perhaps remembering we’re in a public restaurant, one Enzo might not have left yet. “As your best friend for life, I’m going to say one thing and then we can drop it.”
This should be good.
“Either you totally lied or are so out of practice you really don’t realize it, but Enzo DeLuca wants to fuck the ever-loving shit out of you.”
I should not be excited by her words.
“And you are obviously not ‘over’ your crush,” she whispers, “even if you did a decent job of hiding it.”
“That was two things,” I point out.
Lisa looks over my shoulder, presumably at the topic of our conversation, and then glances back at me. Was he gone? Or was he still surrounded by legions of hangover-less fans of Angel’s Brew and Angel Pale Ale and Angel Red Wine and every other Angel product he’d put out over the past few years?
“One thing, two things. Whatever. Either way, you’d better figure your shit out by tonight, because I think you’ll have a decision on your hands.”
“Which is?”
“How ready are you to get back in the saddle?”
We both know my last breakup was harsh enough for me to swear off men for a long, long time. But this is different. This is Enzo.
“Doesn’t matter,” I say, and try to believe it. “He’s leaving Sunday.”
“But he’s still around tonight,” she suggests, wagging her eyebrows up and down.
“Yeah, and a one-night stand with one of my brother’s best friends is a brilliant idea.”
“Suit yourself. But I, for one, am looking forward to the opening tonight. Hey, are you eating those home fries?”
I shake my head, not able to think about home fries. Or food. Or anything except the man whose name I can still hear being whispered around us.
“An interesting night indeed,” I finally agree.
5
Enzo
“Get out of the kitchen and go greet guests,” my father demands of me. Demands, because my dad has never once asked for something in his life. And my brothers and I learned long ago never to question him.
I don’t start now.
“Just making sure he doesn’t screw up the sauce.”
Tris glares at me, like I can help the fact that his sauce isn’t as good as mine.
“Good thing Dad is back here to maintain quality control,” I tease.
My brother ignores my parting shot. Our father did something tonight I can’t ever remember him doing before—he closed the pizza shop. And to think I almost missed this . . .
“C’mon, pretty boy,” our brother Gian says. “The place is filling up.”
Gian’s twenty-seven, the youngest of my brothers. Only Lusanne is younger than him. Being with my siblings feels right in a deep way, and it makes me regret being away from home for so long. I’ve seen them, of course, but we haven’t all been together since the crazy family cruise I took them on in September. I was traveling for work over Thanksgiving and Christmas, but Lusanne and Tris visited me for New Year’s weekend, and Gian came to see me last month. I like wining and dining my siblings when they visit New York, but there’s something different about being home. About being together at the same time in the place we grew up.
Still, what choice do I have? Building a business empire is no easy task.
“What’s wrong?” Gian asks as we step out of the kitchen.
“Nothing,” I say. “Just happy to be here.”
He nods as if he knew it, and he probably did. Gian, the only other member of the family who doesn’t work for the family business, at least not exclusively, is also the best at reading my moods. Growing up I was closest with Lusanne, but Gian is the most sensitive of my siblings. He can read people like no one else.
The place really has filled up since I went into the kitchen. Mom and Lusanne stand by the door, greeting guests. They’re like carbon copies of each other, one just younger than the other. I scan the room.
She’s not here yet.
People start to notice me.
“Come on, let’s hit the deck,” I say to Gian.
It’s a beautiful property, the enclosed deck opening to a full view of Lake Shohola. A temporary bar is set up along one side, big white lights dangling from the ceiling.
I lead the way to the bar.
“Shouldn’t we greet guests?” Gian asks.
“They’ll find us out here. Trust me.” It’s fairly empty at the moment, but I know it won’t stay that way for long. I saw the stares, the whispers behind barely raised hands.
“I don’t know how you can stand it.”
Gian met us out the night before, plus he’s witnessed me being mobbed in New York and even on the cruise last year. My life can hardly be described as normal anymore.