Page 82 of Santa Baby

One by one, people started filling the seats. The younger kids were seated at the table in the kitchen, which proved to not make much of a difference in the noise level between the two rooms.

Fia tried to explain this meal to me—seven dishes. All seafood in some way, shape, or form. Bottles of wine were passed down the table while some of the uncles argued over where the baccala was.

“Colin did it this year,” a woman with long, pin straight black hair shouted from the far end of the table. “It’s his first time, you know. Someone get a picture when he walks in!”

“The kid’s thirty-five, Adora, come on,” a man said from the kitchen as he walked in with a corkscrew for the wine bottles.

“There he is,” another male voice announced over the fray. “Everybody clap for Mr. Baccala.”

Half-spirited and slightly sarcastic claps rang out as Colin arrived carrying an oven-safe dish, his hands covered by candy cane print oven mitts. He curtsied, rolling his eyes as applause rained down on him. I smiled, shaking my head.

Colin started gesturing madly for someone to make room on the table for the hot dish. He looked exactly like he did the day I met him in college. Loud, animated, with his thick Brooklyn accent rushing to the surface as he bickered with his uncles. I momentarily forgot I was technically his boss, and was just his friend again, like the two of us hadn’t gone into business together on a whim.

And that I wasn’t now dating his baby sister.

Guilt washed over me as the last people sat down. I glanced at Fia, who had her chin propped on her hand. Her aunt leaned in to whisper into her ear, probably about me, I guessed. Fia looked beautiful tonight. That was all I could think about until one of her grandmothers tugged on my sweater.

“Do you pray?”

“Uh—”

One of the uncles started to lead the family in a spirited blessing that had several people gasping in shock and swatting him with napkins. I crossed myself on impulse, old habits dying hard, and caught Fia smirking at me out of the corner of my eye. Her grandmothers were instantly pleased with me and promptly filled my plate with food, ensuring I got the best pieces of everything on the table. The dinner flowed without a hitch.

“No, no, no. That’s wrong. I got Fia her first camera, remember? After her first communion,” a man with a wiry, salt and pepper beard said from the far side of the table. His wife, bottle blonde and beautiful, rolled her eyes and shook her head.

“That’s not true, Frankie. Nonna Gemma got her that disposable camera for her fourth birthday. She took our picture together, remember? We still have it on the fridge.”

Fia was turning a bright pink under the flood of praise and admiration being poured in her direction.

“You should see the cameras she has now.” Fia’s mother beamed, wiggling her eyebrows.

One of the uncles rolled his eyes and waved a hand in dismissal. “No, listen. I know a guy in jersey, Fia. Are you listening? You said one of your lenses was cracked or something? He can get you all fixed up on that, no problem.”

I’d been smiling around forkfuls of food the entire dinner so far, finding myself laughing even though I didn’t understand the backstories or know who these people were talking about most of the time.

But that all came crashing down in an instant.

“What’s the big deal? It’s not like she’s going to need a camera now anyway,” Colin barked, just out of eyeline.

“Why?” the blonde aunt asked, setting her fork down. “What’d we miss?”

Suddenly all eyes were on Fia, whose face fell, her eyes going wide as she slowly turned to me. Her lips parted, but then Colin rang out, “She got a job offer in LA. Senior Event Manager at some fancy production company.”

I held her gaze as the room spun around us, both of us washed away in a tidal wave of conversation. She’d gotten a job offer? In LA?

“When?” I asked without meaning to speak.

Fia shook her head. “I haven’t⁠—”

“This must be so hard for both of you,” Nonna Gemma said sympathetically, laying a withered hand on my forearm. Several people looking in our direction nodded.

“Oh, come on,” Colin sputtered, standing with a nearly empty glass of wine in his hands.

“Colin,” Fia warned, but it was too late.

“What? It’s not like this was real.” He gestured to us, and my stomach sank to my shoes.

“What are you talking about, Colin? Sit down,” his father urged, but Colin was looking right at Fia, who looked shattered.