"That's not the same thing and you know it."
Roman takes a sip of wine, then looks at Harper with that calculating expression I know means he's about to say something designed to make me uncomfortable. "Speaking of social visits—Harper, you're coming to the wedding, right?"
Harper blinks, mid-reach for her water glass. "Wedding?"
"My wedding. December twenty-first. Hamptons." He grins. "Three weeks from now. Victor's my best man, which means he's legally obligated to bring a date who will make him look less emotionally constipated by comparison."
"I—" Harper looks at me. "I didn't know?—"
"I was going to ask you," I say, shooting Roman a look that clearly communicates I wanted to do this privately.
"When? Next week? The day of?" Roman ignores me, focusing on Harper. "The invitation is open. You should come. Calli already added you to the seating chart."
"She doesn't even know if Harper wants to—" I start.
"I'd love to," Harper says, her smile genuine despite the surprise. "If that's okay with you, Victor."
"Of course it's okay." I reach for her hand under the table. "I was planning to ask tonight. Roman just has terrible timing."
"I have excellent timing," Roman corrects. "You would have agonized over the perfect moment and then asked her in some weirdly formal way that would have made it uncomfortable. This way, it's done. Easy."
Christian raises his glass. "To Roman's wedding. And to Victor bringing an actual date instead of showing up alone and glowering at the happy couple."
"I don't glower."
"You absolutely glower," Lucia says. “At our wedding, you looked like you were calculating tax implications during the vows."
"I was."
Harper laughs, and Babushka nods approvingly. "Is good! Wedding is family event. Harper is family now. She should go."
"See?" Roman says. "Even Babushka agrees. It's settled."
The doorbell rings.
Everyone looks up, and I frown. "I'm not expecting anyone else."
"I'll get it," Lucia says, standing. "Probably just a delivery."
She disappears toward the foyer, and we continue eating.
Then I hear it.
Italian. Rapid-fire Italian. Multiple voices, all talking at once.
Christian's face goes pale. "Oh no."
"What?" I ask.
"That sounds like?—"
Lucia reappears, looking both amused and slightly panicked. "So. Christian’s nonna's here. And she brought the book club."
"She what?"
But it's too late.
A wave of Italian grandmothers floods into my dining room like a well-dressed, perfume-scented tsunami.
