Total pages in book: 109
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 101622 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 508(@200wpm)___ 406(@250wpm)___ 339(@300wpm)
What the fuck is this guy talking about? He whacks my arm and bursts out laughing. “I had him going. I really had him going.”
Delaney says, “He only has one good arm, Lorenzo. Go easy on him.”
“Right. Right,” he replies, staring at the cast. Cutting off my sleeve isn’t pretty, but it got me here looking the best I could on short notice since my tailor isn’t open on Sundays. He turns as if he’s lost interest and slides in next to his mom.
I turn to her father, who has been extraordinarily patient. I imagine he’d have to be with this rowdy crowd. “My cannoli tells me you were hit by a car?”
I send my gaze from him to Delaney. “Your cannoli?”
“How are you doing?” His concern wrangles his forehead and filters through his deeper tone.
Lifting the cast, I reply, “I lived to tell the tale.”
“That’s good. I’m sure Delaney’s taking good care of you.”
“She is, sir.”
“Eh.” He waves me off as he turns away. “Call me Pops.”
Pops? Mom? I don’t even call my own mother Mom. Something makes me think that their monikers are well-earned over the years. Mother has always just fit mine.
“Come on, Hotshot.” I look at my girl and see her patting the seat next to her.
I slide into the booth until our legs bump together under the table. Her hand finds my thigh and rubs up and down like we do this all the time—eat dinner with her family and touch each other in public. I was never one for PDA, but I’m not opposed to showing the world Delaney’s mine. It’s barbaric to want to mark her as mine, but damn, the instinct is strong.
Joe returns and slips in next to me. I’m trapped indefinitely. Pamela sets a glass in front of me and pours in wine from a Chianti bottle. She’s not shy with her wine. It’s filled almost to the top. “Drink. Drink,” she says.
Cheap table wine isn’t typically my go-to when I eat at Italian restaurants, but I’m their guest, so Chianti it is tonight.
When the others are distracted with conversation, teasing Joe about a buyer at Macy’s, Delaney holds a basket in front of me. “Bread?”
“It’s okay. I don’t want to ruin my appetite.”
The chatter stops, and all eyes turn on me, at least at this booth. Delaney hands me a fluffy hot breadstick and whispers only for my ears, “Please eat.” With everyone’s life seemingly dependent on whether I take a bite, I bite. The volume returns, picking up right where they left off. Delaney says, “So she dumped you for the delivery guy?”
“Yeah, he was flashing a bonus check he’d gotten like it was a fucking bar of gold. Not my loss.”
Note to self: Never say no to food when a Bayetti offers. I continue eating the bread because it’s really good, but it’s also given me a reason not to talk.
Pamela says, “I should think not.” Turning to me, she smiles. “Delly bean said you have a concussion as well.”
Cannoli and Delly bean? The love between them is evident. My mother and father called me Warner. And it stuck. “I’m healing.”
“That’s good. Hope you like meatballs.”
I don’t get the correlation, but I think if I hung around them long enough, I would start understanding a lot more about their transitions and probably end up with a nickname. “I love meatballs.”
Joe and Lorenzo hop up and disappear to the back again. I slip my red fabric napkin over my right leg and finish the breadstick. I pick up my wine to wash it down and feel eyes watching my every move. I look at my girl and ask, “What?”
“Nothing.” She smiles, but then says, “This is nice.”
“It is.” I take a drink of wine, regretting that decision before I swallow it down. But she’s still looking at me like she’s hoping for the best, so I grin. “I’m glad I’m here.”
Her shoulders slump in relief. “So am I.”
Just as the brothers return with plates of food they’re doling out, Anthony says, “You know what I always say.”
In unison, they all reply, “What’s meant to be yours will be.”
He stabs the air with his finger, and adds, “It’s true.”
Pamela grabs the finger and pulls his hand down. “Eat. Eat, Anthony. We don’t have all night. It’s a full house tonight.”
Lorenzo says, “I’m working with you tonight.” He laughs, but then jabs, “Since this one over here isn’t.”
I glance at Delaney, who’s giving her brother the evil eye. I get that what Delaney and I have would fall under the definition of a whirlwind romance. It doesn’t make sense, and it doesn’t need to for me to be happy. I knew enough, or so I thought. I’m realizing I don’t know anything about this woman. What does she do for work? Work here at the restaurant? Where does she live since she sure as daylight doesn’t live with me? Technically. I’m not kicking her out, though. “You have to work after dinner?” I ask her mom.