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He took Harper’s hand and led her into the main house.
“Who called the villa?” he asked the waiting butler.
“An attorney, sir,” the slim man answered in a thick Italian accent. “The caller said he was with your record label. They’re having trouble sending you documents. There have been issues with the internet in the region. A courier is supposed to drop off some papers, and you are to call this number when the documents arrive.”
“Did the lawyer say anything else?” He studied the slip of paper. The scrawled digits looked more like chicken scratch than numbers. His chest tightened as he stuffed the note into his pocket.
“It’s a little late for business, isn’t it?” Harper remarked.
“Not in the States. California is seven hours behind Italy.”
Still, what could be so important that they had to contact him while he was on vacation?
Was his label dropping him? Did they hate the new tracks?
Music was a dog-eat-dog industry.
If Mitzi wasn’t recuperating from her surgery, she’d be all over this.
Whatever the label wanted, he was flying solo to figure it out.
“Uncle Landy, Aunt Harper, are the photographer people gone?” Aria called, sprinting toward them.
“We just wrapped up,” he replied and whisked the child into his arms as the trio made their way to the patio.
“We’re done with dessert, and Lolo and Lala were asking about you. They’ve got something they want to say,” Aria reported.
His staff had set up a celebration dinner on the patio next to the pool overlooking the lake. They’d oohed and ahhed over a delectable five-course meal after the nuptials, but the media had arrived early for the photo op, and he and Harper were forced to excuse themselves from the festivities before dessert was served.
“How was dessert?” Harper asked.
Aria grinned from ear to ear. “They brought up a bunch of different kinds of bonbons and there was a cake.”
“That sounds delicious.”
“The bonbons were good. But I like Mr. Sweet’s bonbons the best.”
Harper chuckled. “What about the cake?”
“It was super yummy. There were layers of Cream of Wheat in it.”
Cream of Wheat?
“Crème brûlée,” he corrected, pretty damned sure the cake didn’t include creamy breakfast porridge.
“Yeah, Cream of Wheat brûlée,” the little girl quipped.
He shared a look with Harper, taking in her easy grin. Italy suited her. Being an aunt suited her. Being a wife—his wife—suited her.
“We saved some for you. It’s in the kitchen.”
“Did you eat all the bonbons, Miss Paige-Grant?” he teased.
“I wanted to,” Aria confessed with an adorable shrug. “But then Lala got an idea and told the waiter guy to put some bonbons in a box for you to eat when you’re at the secret location,” the kid finished, whisper-shouting thesecret locationpart.
“Secret location,” Harper repeated. “Tell me more.”
“It’s for your kissy face romance scale stuff,” Aria answered, then gasped. “I don’t think I was supposed to say that.”
