by Lauren Layne
“Sure you did. You and your brother love when I go babysit your parents. Allows you to bring hookers round here without me knowing.”
“Too true,” he said, taking the huge pasta pot out of her hands and filling it with water before putting it on the stove. “We actually have the system down pat by now. The second you’re out the door is the second this joint turns into a brothel. Hope you don’t mind we rent out your room.”
“Shameful way to speak to your nonna,” she said, taking a swat at him.
Luc grinned knowing that she didn’t mind one bit. With two cops as sons and four cops as grandsons, she was well used to their salty sense of humor. Which was a damn good thing, because it was the only way the living arrangement worked without the three of them killing each other.
It wasn’t quite a typical arrangement.
While it was standard for Italian elders to live with their children or grandchildren, things were a little bit backward when said elder had a rent-controlled apartment on the Upper West Side of Manhattan.
It was an address that neither Luc nor Anthony could dream of having on a cop’s salary, but Nonna had lived in the gorgeous three-bedroom apartment since the 1950s, back before rent for an address in the upper seventies on the West Side went sky-high.
God bless rent control.
Of course, more and more lately, Nonna had been spending time at Luc’s parents’ house on Staten Island. She liked to say it was because she wished to keep an eye on her daughter-in-law’s cooking and her son’s waistline, but Luc was pretty sure she did it to give Anthony and Luc their privacy.
Which Luc appreciated. There was something uncomfortable about bringing female company around for nighttime activities when your grandma was in the next room, just waiting to offer the woman biscotti the next morning.
Come to think of it, Luc should probably text his older brother and let him know that Nonna was in the house. It wasn’t unusual for Anthony to finish up his shift and come home with a female “friend” in tow.
Not long ago, it hadn’t been unusual for Luc either.
But recently he’d been in a bit of a rut. The whole “hero cop” thing had made him suspect all interested females of being groupies, and it had been too long since he’d felt genuinely intrigued by a woman.
Luc tipped back his beer bottle and tried very, very hard not to think of Ava Sims.
Nonna watched him out of the corner of her eye as she added salt to the pasta water, and then she turned and pointed a long finger at him. “I know that look.”
“What look?”
“You think I raised two sons and four grandsons and don’t recognize when they’ve got a woman on the brain? Who is she?”
“Nobody.”
Nonna sighed. “Just because you’re the baby of the family doesn’t mean I’ll let you get away with fibbing like your mother does.”
Luc lowered himself into the ancient wood chair at the tiny kitchen table. If having his grandmother for a roommate for the past three years had taught him anything, it was that the woman wouldn’t let up until she had her answers.
Neither would he get any of that carbonara until he’d thrown her at least a nugget to fret over.
Luc sighed and set his beer aside before leaning forward, resting his head briefly in his hands. She patted him on the head before settling into the chair across from him.
“Is she a looker?” Nonna asked.
Luc snorted and lifted his head. “It’s not quite what you think. There’s nothing even close to romantic going on, but…you know that godforsaken CBC story?”
“Don’t you go blaming the Lord because you’re a good guy and some tourist happened to catch that on camera and put it up on that Yoo-hooTube.”
“Well I’m more than happy to let God off the hook, because it just so happens there’s a very real-life person I can blame for the fact that I’m not able to put this circus behind me.”
“Ah, now we’re getting right down to it,” Nonna said, rubbing her hands together. “The Woman.”
“Ava Sims,” Luc said, his voice getting more irritable just by saying her name out loud. “She’s the main reporter assigned to the story, and she’s been following me around like the fu—freaking paparazzi for the past couple weeks.”
Nonna laughed and patted his hand. “So it’s like that then.”
“No, it’s just…I wish this whole thing would blow over.”
Even though I bought her flowers.
Her smile slipped a little. “Is it so bad then? Being rewarded for being an exceptional cop?”
Luc gritted his teeth to stop the instant denial. He wasn’t an exceptional cop.
If he were, Shayna and Mike would still be alive. But he didn’t talk about that. Not even with Nonna.
“Did I mention that Miss Sims and I have a history?” he said, knowing it would be exactly the kind of topic change that she would latch on to.
Nonna’s gray eyebrows lifted. “Did you fornicate?”
Luc choked on his beer. “Jesus, no. And there should be a ban against that word.”
“Don’t be prudish, Luca. So if you didn’t fornicate with this girl, how did you know her? Did she fornicate with one of your brothers? Anthony gets around.”
“I’ll tell him you said so,” Luc muttered. “And no, she hasn’t fornicated with any Moretti.”
At least he hoped not.
“Three years ago, I gave her a parking ticket.”
Nonna’s eyes went big. “No! Not a parking ticket!”
He gave her a look. “Are grandmothers allowed to be this sarcastic? Aren’t you supposed to be doting with baked goods?”
She pointed toward the kitchen. “I’ve got pancetta from Ottomanelli’s sizzling in the pan. You don’t think that’s doting?”
Nonna had a point. He’d take the salty Italian bacon over a cup of hot tea any day.
“So if you haven’t bagged her, what’s the story with this Sims girl?”
“Bagged her, Nonna? Really? But it’s like I said…I gave her a parking ticket a couple years ago. We had words. Sparks, I guess,” he said, feeling awkward.
And I bought her flowers.
Nonna cackled.
“She didn’t pay the ticket,” Luc muttered. “Presented it to me on the same day she dropped the bomb about this damn America’s Hero story.”
“I hope you cuffed her. Can’t be letting a criminal like that roam the streets.”
Luc closed his eyes. “How is it possible that you gave birth to the former Police Commissioner of New York City?”
“Posh. You think your father hasn’t waved away a few parking tickets back when I had a car for a hot minute in eighty-four?”
Luc leaned forward. “Has he?”
Nonna ignored him, getting up to baby her pancetta. “This girl bothers you.”
Hell yes she bothers me.
Luc took another sip of beer. “Mostly she worries me. She has a lot of power over my life; she can portray me however she wants, to God knows how many people. I should be trying to get on her good side.”
“Oh passerotto. You’ve looked in the mirror. You don’t have to try to get on any woman’s good side, you just give a little wink.”
“So I’m your favorite then?” Luc gave her his best smile.
“Depends. You going to do my yoga with me later?”
“God. No. Never.”
“Then Elena’s still my favorite. We’re doing hot yoga next week.”
“Sounds…awful,” Luc said, standing and going toward the cheese that she put purposefully on the counter for him to grate.
They worked in companionable silence for several minutes before Nonna spoke again. “You know, if you want to get on the good side of this girl without shagging her silly—”
“Try to be appropriate. Just try.”
“She needs the Moretti treatment,” Nonna pressed on.
“Another euphemism for sex?”
“Better.”
Better
than sex?
“Invite her to family dinner. Show her that the hero thing runs in the genes.”
Luc pauses in grating the cheese. “You want me to invite Ava Sims to Sunday dinner.”
Nonna patted his cheek. “How bad could it be?”
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Once again, Mihail had been banished. Only this time, it wasn’t for any official NYPD media ban.
This time it was about common decency. Because even the pushiest of reporters didn’t bring a camera to a family dinner.
Especially when the family wasn’t yours.
When Luc had suggested she accompany him to the weekly Moretti Sunday dinner, Ava thought he’d been joking.
They couldn’t seem to go five minutes in the same building without fighting, and now he wanted her to meet his parents? His siblings?
It was a disaster waiting to happen.
Tonight there would be none of Sawyer Lopez’s easy charm to help ease the tension, and no cop business to distract them from whatever animosity always seemed to be simmering beneath the surface.
Still, there’d been no way to say no.
Every journalistic instinct told her that the only thing the public would love more than a cop with a hero complex was a cop who ate Sunday dinner with his cop family.
And of course there was the not-so-minor fact that he’d bought her flowers.
Which they hadn’t talked about.
Ava had said thank you, of course, in an awkward, I’m not sure what’s going on here kind of way.
And Luc had said you’re welcome. Equally awkward. And if something important had passed between them in that second, it was gone before she could identify it.
She wasn’t even sure she wanted to.
Because deep down, she was worried that the flowers had been pity flowers. He’d seen the way things were with Miranda. Had he gotten her the birthday flowers because he’d been worried that nobody would remember?
The thought chafed.
When a man like Officer Luc Moretti bought you flowers you wanted it to be because he couldn’t stop thinking about you.
Not because he felt bad for you.
Ava pushed the annoying thought aside and focused on the evening ahead.
She needed to be on her A game.
Ava would have preferred to simply meet Luc at his parents’ house, but since his parents lived on Staten Island, which she wasn’t at all familiar with, they’d agreed to meet at the ferry dock.
A quick glance at her phone showed she was fifteen minutes early, and she took advantage of the time to clear her head.
Or at least try to.
She wandered toward the railing of the harbor, leaning over as far as she could, staring into the murky water. There was a floating water bottle. A clump of hair or something nasty. A condom.
“Nice,” she muttered.
“You know, most people kill time waiting for the ferry by ogling the Statue of Liberty, not taking in the trash.”
Ava stiffened slightly at the sound of Luc’s voice, although it was blissfully free of its usual agitation. Pulling back from the railing, she turned to face him, seeing that his expression was also easier than usual. He even gave her a half smile when their eyes met, and Ava’s stomach flipped.
It was only then she registered that she was seeing him out of uniform. She’d seen him in jeans before, once, at the diner, but this time felt different.
It was intimate, probably because this time she’d been invited to see him like this, rather than crashing his free time.
It was as though she were seeing Luc Moretti the man, not Luc Moretti the cop.
And Ava the woman responded.
Alarm bells sounded. She ignored them.
He was wearing jeans, brown boots, and a long-sleeve gray T-shirt that made his blue eyes seem lighter than usual. The wind coming off the harbor messed his dark brown hair slightly, making him look completely approachable and harmless.
Ha.
Luc stuck his hands into his back pockets, rocking back on his heels as he studied her right back.
She’d agonized over what to wear, not wanting to go too casual for fear they were a dress-for-dinner family, but neither wanting to go with one of her usual dress-to-impress ensembles for fear she’d come off as trying too hard.
She’d opted for a cream-colored sundress and blue cardigan with strappy platform sandals. Her hair was pulled back into a high ponytail in an effort to look like the approachable girl next door, instead of hungry reporter after your family’s darkest secrets.
Ava hated herself for watching his face for a reaction to her appearance. Not that it mattered. Other than a brief glance-over, his eyes didn’t so much as flicker before he joined her at the railing, leaning over so that his weight braced on his forearms.
He inhaled deeply. “You know, I’ve been making this trek about every other Sunday for years now, and I haven’t once gotten sick of this.”
Luc gestured with his chin, and Ava followed his gaze to the far-off Statue of Liberty.
“I know some people think it’s a tourist trap,” he continued. “That real New Yorkers don’t care about stuff like that, or the Brooklyn Bridge. But I like to think it’s us locals that can appreciate it the most, you know? To have this sort of history in our own backyard.”
“Pretty romantic for a guy who spent the better part of yesterday patrolling Times Square,” she said, mimicking his posture at the railing.
He made a disgusted noise. “Times Square isn’t in the same category as the Statue of Liberty. Both are tourist magnets, but one is history. The other is…”
“Hell?” she supplied.
The corner of his mouth lifted upward. “Pretty much.”
“You said every other Sunday,” Ava said, glancing at him. “You don’t do this every week?”
He shook his head. “Nah. Church is every week. Breakfast after church is every week. But Sunday nights are sort of a standing invitation, if it works out sort of thing. My parents are old-fashioned, but they’re just modern enough to respect their adult children’s busy schedules.”
They fell silent for a moment, although not in the awkward way, just the peaceful kind. “Is your brother meeting us here?” she asked finally.
“Not sure. They might have caught the earlier one.”
“They. They’re both coming? Anthony and Vincent?”
“You’ve done your homework.”
She shrugged. “It’s easy when they’re all cops. Public record and all that. The details on who they are to you is a bit fuzzier though.”
He gave her a look that said he knew she was on a fishing expedition, but to her surprise, he humored her.
“Short version? Anthony’s the oldest, and is likely a shoo-in for captain over in the nineteenth precinct. Vincent’s a homicide detective. They’re both cocky, arrogant pains in my ass, but damn good cops.”
“And the third brother?”
“Marco. Marc.” Luc glanced down at his hands. “He’s with the LAPD.”
She caught the change in tone. “You miss him.”
He glanced at her sharply, likely assessing to see whether she was prying as a reporter, or as a woman.
She held up her hands. “Off the record.”
He rolled his shoulders and stood up straighter. “He moved to California a couple years ago because his high school girlfriend got it in her head that she wanted to do the Hollywood thing.”
“Are they still together?”
He grunted.
“I’ll take that as a yes, but I don’t like it?”
Luc turned around so that his back was to the railing, crossing his feet at the ankles. “Marco’s a good guy. We all miss him.”
It wasn’t exactly a spill-your-guts kind of answer, but neither was it a fuck-off, so she supposed she’d take it as progress.
“You guys are all close?”
His eyes narrowed slightly, and Ava’s patience tweaked. “Look, you can’t invite me o
ver to family dinner under the guise of cooperating with my story and then not expect me to ask questions. I just want to make sure I don’t misrepresent you guys.”
“Uh huh. And if I told you that my parents were assholes, my siblings and I fought constantly, and that we only did family dinners out of some sort of warped Italian guilt, you’re telling me you wouldn’t sugarcoat it when it comes down to actually shooting video? You wouldn’t ask us to pretend?”
She crossed her arms over her chest, mimicking his posture. “No. I know all about families that pretend, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
His dark blue eyes found hers. “Tell me.”
Just like that, he’d turned the tables. Giving her a chance to talk about her.
And even more incredibly, she wanted to.
“Well…” she said, taking a long breath. “You’ve already met my sister. I’d like to say you just caught her at an off time, but the truth is, she’s always like that. Miranda’s always been really good at the put others down to prop yourself up thing. The others aren’t much better. My brother’s a condescending ass, and my parents…well, let’s just say there’s no way on God’s green earth that we’d be caught dead having Sunday dinner together.”
He looked away. “Let me ask you something, Sims…”
“Yeah?”
When he turned back, his gaze was fierce. “Given all of that, what would you do, if your boss told you that you had no choice but to let a pushy reporter come inspect every area of your life, all because you were just trying to do your job and got unlucky, hmm? Would you become an open book? Would you become BFFs? Or would you watch your back because your private life is supposed to be private?”
Ava’s stomach twisted with an unfamiliar sensation. Guilt.
Ambition was the name of the game in her career, but never before had she been so conscious that she might be coming very, very close to crossing a line. If the anger on his face was any indication, she may have already crossed it.
But beneath the guilt there was also confusion. She’d thought—hoped—that they’d gotten past this, but sometimes it felt like they’d never gone anywhere at all. That he hadn’t bought her flowers on her birthday.
