Even if it’s with his daughter on the back of your motorcycle.
The private gate begins a slow swing open as we approach, reinforcing my thought that we’re being watched. Abigail waves to a camera. I stare directly into it, not sure who’s watching on the other end of the feed.
We cruise down the long drive and I park. Abigail climbs off first, and I take her helmet. I’ll need to buy another one today so I can be safe as well. I’m an asshole ninety percent of the time, but a safe one.
Actually, I’m feeling less of an asshole these last few days. I simply can’t quit smiling when Abigail explains American reality television to me by acting out the shows charade-style, has entire conversations with her plants while she waters them, and implements naked yoga Sundays as a household rule.
I’d fought that one because downward dog with my dick hanging and my ass in the air isn’t exactly a pleasant look, but Abigail had argued that she would only do it if I did. So down dog, I did.
And so did she, my cock reminds me.
She’s nothing if not interesting, a delight to experience each day with as she sees things I would never even notice.
In return, I’ve kept to my vow to feed her and she’s enjoying foods she’s never tried, become a pro at riding behind me, and has pulled a promise from me to go see Reno again . . . for some new ink for myself that she’s designed as a surprise.
I secretly think she’s going to put a lip imprint of her own kiss on my ass because she had a giggle fit that lasted for twenty minutes about the very idea. I’d refused, of course, but if it makes her smile every time she sees my ass for the next fifty years, I’ll happily get it permanently inked on my backside.
And it’s only been days since I rushed her at Violet’s. I can’t imagine what adventures fifty years might hold.
Like tonight.
We approach the door, and surprisingly, she rings the bell and doesn’t barge right in. Something about that seems oddly unexpected about both Abigail and her family, based on what I’ve heard from Violet about how close they are. I lift my eyes in question and she explains, “Once, I came home and caught my parents in a rather compromising position. It’s great that they love each other and all, but I do not want to see that again. Ever. So now, even when they know I’m coming, I ring the bell, knock, or go in yelling my arrival so they have time to get dressed.”
“Ah, love!”
She smacks my chest with the back of her hand. “You can say that because it wasn’t your parents.” A shiver works its way down her spine and I grin.
The door opens, and a black-suited, white-haired man stands before us. He’s smaller, frailer, and older than I thought the great Morgan Andrews would be.
“Karl!” Abigail squeals and promptly gathers the man up in her arms for a hug. “It’s been ages!”
Karl? So not Morgan. Who’s Karl?
“You should come home more often then, Miss Abi,” the old guy says.
“I know. Been busy working on my tan, you know how it is,” she jokes to the particularly pale man. She’s done no such thing. She’s been working with Janey and Samantha every day at the flower shop while I scout out restaurants to consider applying at.
“Looking quite Virgin Islands, you are,” he replies dryly.
“I haven’t been a virgin in a long time, Karl,” she tells him with a laugh. “A really, really long time. And we both know that.” He returns the mirth, though it’s with a significantly higher degree of restraint.
I clear my throat.
“Oh! Karl, this is Lorenzo Toscani. Lorenzo, this is Karl. Technically, he’s the house manager. Realistically, he’s the reason we’re all sane. Well, everyone else, anyway. I’m the reason he’s crazy most of the time.” She nudges him with her elbow.
“You’re certainly what makes life interesting, Miss Abi.” His smile is warm and genuine. He offers me a hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Toscani.”
“You as well, Karl.”
“Come in, come in. Mr. Toscani, if you’ll follow me to Mr. Andrews’s office. Miss Abi, your mother is in the kitchen with the caterer,” Karl says.
Honestly, I’d rather go to the kitchen to hang with the caterer to see what they’re cooking and maybe what I can learn. But after Abigail shoots me a wink for strength, I follow Karl almost happily.
Down this hallway awaits my fate.
Karl knocks twice and then opens the door. “Mr. Morgan, may I present Mr. Toscani?”
“Come in!” a deep voice booms.
Inside the room, I see three men sitting in club chairs by an unlit fireplace. They stand as I enter, and Karl closes the door behind me, leaving the gladiator with the lions.
Kaede, Courtney’s husband, with his dark hair and eyes, was once an interloper who, like me, fell for one of the Andrews women. He gives me a pitying look. Ross, Violet’s husband, seems eager to get this shitshow on the road.
And last but certainly not least, Morgan Andrews.
He’s an older, slightly less athletic version of Ross, a man who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and has no intention of shirking that responsibility any time soon.
Morgan is in charge here, and I wait for him to make the first move. “Good to meet you, Lorenzo.” He holds a hand out. Our handshake is firm and solid, not a dick-measuring contest of who can squeeze the hardest. I appreciate that. “Have a seat.” He gestures to a fourth chair.
“Drink?” Ross asks as he leans forward to pick up a crystal decanter.
“Abigail actually warned me to take the offered Glenfiddich. She said the one guy who dared to say no was kicked into the front yard. So, yes, thank you,” I tell Ross.
All three men laugh at my confession.
“Honesty, a rare trait and one I appreciate,” Morgan says as he sips his own scotch. “Tell me more about yourself, Lorenzo.”
I mirror his move with a sip of my own. “I’m from Positano originally but have cooked all over the world. I recently left Avanti and am currently researching for my next move.”
Morgan nods in understanding, as if I didn’t just pretty up telling him that I’m unemployed. “And your intentions with my daughter?”
I appreciate his directness, so I return it with some of my own.
I set my glass down on the table. “I know it has been a short time, but those days in Aruba were rather intensely deep, and since then, we’ve been sharing even more. I won’t say I know everything about Abigail, but I want to learn more every day. In fact, I wanted to ask you . . .”
I swallow, wishing I could pick my drink back up. But I can do this without the assistance of alcohol, even if my mouth is drier than cotton.
“I know Abigail told you about the pretend honeymoon we had, but what I would truly appreciate is a chance to earn your blessing to ask Abigail to marry me in truth.” I exhale in relief at even getting the words out.
I’m not weak, not one to bow under the weight of daring risks, but Abigail is the most important dream I’ve ever had.
Morgan eyes me critically. “It’s a little late for that, don’t you think? Considering you and Abi have already told that little lie and forced my hand into confirming it?” His voice is even and steady, almost flat.
I expect he is waiting for an apology. None is forthcoming, from me or Abigail, I suspect. “I supported Abigail with what she needed at the time to deal with Emily and would do it again, because however unintended, it brought us together, and I wouldn’t change that for anything. Also, if I may be so bold as to point out, you blindly supported Abigail with the same lie when backed into a corner.”
He hums thoughtfully. “So, your wish is to actually marry Abi and you’re asking for my permission?”
“Blessing,” I correct.
“Semantics,” he replies with a small smile. “Abi would kill you where you sit if she heard even a whisper of this conversation. You know that, right?”
The knife of his words stabs me directly in the heart. “You don’t think
she would want to marry me?”
There’s a moment of silence where I barely manage to restrain myself from stomping out of here, grabbing Abigail, sitting her on the back of my bike, and riding off into the sunset with her. Fuck this pretense and politeness. I don’t need it. I only need her.
But she needs her family.
They’re close, and I won’t take that from her.
But there’s a fresh tic in the muscle beneath my left eye.
That’s when all three men burst out laughing. Kaede even points a finger at me, asking Morgan, “God, did I look that terrified and furious all at the same time when we talked about Courtney?”
My confusion must be obvious because Morgan takes pity on me.
“Look, Lorenzo. We’re going to pretend—see what I did there?” Kaede and Ross groan, and Morgan throws his hands out. “What? Too soon?” But I can see the hint of evil in his smile letting me know that he’s giving all three of us shit.
“We’re going to pretend you never asked for my permission or blessing because Abi would kill us both. She does what she wants, always has and always will. As long as you know that—truly respect that about her down to your soul—you’ll be fine. She has guts, is stubborn, and was fearless to step out on her own from minute one. While I’m glad that Courtney’s here to take the reins of Andrews Consolidated when I step down and I’m proud of what Ross and Kaede are building, Abi is a different breed altogether. I worried that she would settle for someone who wanted her small. I’m glad to see that’s not the case.”
“Not at all, sir. I like her—love her—exactly as she is,” I assure him.
He smiles, and I can sense that some of that weight on his shoulders has lessened. Abigail told me that family is everything to her parents, so I can imagine Morgan’s joy at his children finding love the way he did.
“Hell, to be honest with you, I’m surprised Abi hasn’t dragged you off to a courthouse to get married already. Kimberly and I figured tonight was going to be Abi’s big reveal that it’s all really real now.” He drops his voice to a whisper. “I think Kim’s hoping there’s a baby announcement with it too.”
I do pick up my glass of scotch at that and upend it in one swallow. I gasp at the burn that flows down my throat and up into my sinuses. “Uh, no. Not yet. We’d like to be married first and get to know each other better. I think.”
The idea of kids scares me. The idea of a mini-Abigail is both adorable and terrifying. But I’m under no pretense that if she said she was ready to start trying tonight, I’d have her underneath me in seconds. I’m a full-blown sucker for her.
“Good luck with that. I do appreciate the gesture of this,” he says, pointing from himself to me, “but all you need to do is make my little girl happy and we’ll be fine. Understood?”
There’s the threat I’ve been waiting on, cold and sharp and hard-edged.
“Understood.”
“Good, then let’s eat,” Morgan says. “Fair warning, the caterers heard they were cooking for a chef tonight and got both nervous and excited. I’m not sure if that means we’ll be eating extra well or if it’ll be inedible.”
“I’m sure it’ll be lovely.”
As we walk down the hallway, I can hear female voices from a room somewhere ahead and wonder what interrogation Abigail’s been through while I was with her father.
“What restaurants have you been considering? Or have you thought of opening one of your own? I could help with that, you know,” Morgan offers kindly.
“Thank you, but no. If I ever open my own restaurant, it will be with my own funding. I want it to be mine. For now, I’m happy to let others take the financial risk and focus on the kitchen to allow my creativity to run free. I still have more to learn and excellent opportunities to do so here,” I tell Morgan.
“You passed that test with flying colors, son,” he says with a smile. “Much like my Abi. And I’ll admit I’m glad to hear you say ‘here’ because I would hate to see her leave the business she’s worked so hard to create.”
I shake my head. “Absolutely not. She is SweetPea and SweetPea is her. I know the roots she has here are important to her, and therefore, they are important to me.”
“Dad! Quit with the third-degree,” Abigail yells as she comes out to meet us.
But I don’t need her to save me from her dad. He and I are on the same team . . . Team Abigail, both willing to do anything for her.
Dinner is delicious, as I predicted. Or at least I think it is. I’m so nervous, I barely taste a thing, but everyone else seems to enjoy it.
Finally, with dessert complete and after-dinner coffees sitting on fine china plates, I feel ready.
“Abigail?” I say when there’s a lull in the conversation.
She turns to me. Actually, everyone turns to me—Morgan and Kimberly, Ross and Violet, and Kaede and Courtney. Even baby Carly, who’s sitting in a high chair at the formal dining table.
“I never imagined I would meet someone like you, someone who would make me want to stop everything and find stillness and peace in their eyes—”
Ross chokes on a laugh, “Did he say that Abi’s peaceful? Has he even met her?” I hear Violet’s smack to his chest, and they quiet down for me to continue.
“Someone who makes anywhere feel like home. You make me smile, make me laugh, make me want to smack your ass—”
Morgan interrupts this time, clearing his throat. Oops. Seems Abigail has broken my brain-mouth filter too.
I cut my eyes to Morgan in apology, and Abigail snaps her fingers in front of my face to get my attention back. She’s beaming, already nodding her head when I haven’t even asked what I want to yet.
I could wait. This is fast, strangely, crazily so, but as the happy couples in my family always told me, when you know, you know. So why wait? There is nothing to be gained by delaying.
I scoot my chair back, dropping down to one knee right there at the fancy dinner table in the Andrewses’ dining room to take Abigail’s hands in mine.
“Mia rosa, would you do me the honor of being my wife and allow me the blessing of being your husband?”
Her answer is written all over her face, but she makes me wait a split second while she inhales.
“Abso-freaking-lutely!” she shouts so loudly that I hear dishes clatter in the kitchen.
I smile so big that my face feels stretched and my heart feels filled with her. Standing, I grab her in my arms and spin her around as her family—our family—claps.
I take her lips, molding them to mine in a parent-unfriendly kiss, but I can’t care. I’m too happy, too amazed, and too shocked at the wild and crazy turn my life has taken. Twists and turns for the better with Abigail.
“Wait. On one condition,” Abigail says suddenly, and I freeze.
“Anything. You know that,” I promise, meaning it.
“You sure about that?” she tests.
Chapter 27
Abi
“Okay, people, chug that coffee like it’s light beer at a frat party. We’ve got places to go.” I’m in full Boss mode, something my family understands quite well because we all tend to tackle shit head-on when it’s needed. We’re ambitious, hard-headed people.
Of course, right now, they’re looking at me like I’ve also grown a second head on my right shoulder and it’s wearing a fruit headdress because this is not what they expected three seconds after Lorenzo proposed. I’m sure most women tear up, flash around a ring, and start making plans for bridal gown shopping and venue selections.
I am not most women.
This is not most situations, where the wedding is happening after the honeymoon.
I’m a person who spends day in and day out listening to other people’s dreams, doing all the hard work of making them come true, and watching the stress of putting so much into one day.
I don’t want that. Never wanted that.
I want . . . Lorenzo.
I’m out of the dining room, dragging Lorenzo down the hall
by his hand, though he’s coming willingly and with a smile that says he enjoys my weirdness that means he never quite knows what I’m up to.
“Oh!” Mom exclaims as she gets up to follow. “Abi, what are you doing?”
“Where are you going?” Courtney asks.
“Oh, hell, let me get my purse.” Violet’s a great bestie, always happy to do the crazy things with me too, though that’s changed a bit since Carly was born and she’s gone all responsible and mature on me. She needs a little crazy in her life again, I think gleefully.
In the foyer, I pause long enough to steal some blooms from the arrangement on the table. It’s one of my own designs, so I don’t feel bad about destroying it for my new purpose, but I do shoot Mom a look of apology and promise to send another one as soon as possible.
Mom just blinks in confusion.
Long before I even opened SweetPea Boutique, Mom would make special requests for flowers and I would go out back to hand-select just the perfect ones. Now, she supports me by having a standing weekly order for one foyer display and a small seasonal bud vase bloom on her vanity. It’s one of my favorite jobs each week because she gives me full creative freedom to make whatever I’d like.
I shove the handful of blooms to Violet. “Bring these with you because they can’t ride the bike. Follow us.”
She laughs, trying to hold the flowers, Carly, and a diaper bag at the same time. Ross saves the flowers by taking Carly from Vi’s arms. “By all means, Abs. This is your scheme. Lead on,” he tells me.
Out front, I stand by Lorenzo’s motorcycle. Struck by a momentary flash of nerves, I ask, “You meant it, right?”
He pushes my hair back from my face so he can slide the helmet onto my head. As he fastens the buckle below my chin, his eyes tick up to me. “The proposal?” he clarifies.
“Uh, no. I guess I assumed you meant that. You’re not having second thoughts, are you?”
My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon Page 31
