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“How are you getting back to the city?”
My bag was already resting by the door. He must have put two and two together.
“I have a spot on the Jitney that leaves at 11:00 AM.”
He frowned. “Harper and I are flying out from a private airstrip nearby. Why don’t you come with us and then take my car into the city instead?”
That’s the thing with Luke. He’s without a doubt the nicest, most generous man I’ve ever met. One day, if I ever meet his parents, I’ll have to compliment them on raising a man as good as he is.
“I appreciate it, but I sort of like the Jitney if you can believe it. Sitting next to strangers aside, I get to zone out with my book, and then I don’t have to worry about driving in the city.”
He nodded. “Good point.”
“Think Ned will be able to hold down the fort while I’m gone?” I teased.
“He’ll manage.” Then he checked the time on his watch and sighed, peering back up at me from beneath furrowed brows. “So I’ll see you when I get back?”
I don’t know why he sounded so unsure.
I smiled. “Of course.”
Now, my mom spins me around and around, making me rethink that greasy breakfast sandwich I bought in the bus terminal as it tries to reemerge.
“Our baby is home! Our baby!”
I don’t even fight it. I let them pull me into their arms and squeeze me tight. Of course when they see my bandaged hand, they freak out.
“Who did this to you?” my dad asks, sounding like he’s about to exact revenge, Liam Neeson style. If he had a gun in his hand, he’d cock it.
“I did it to myself, Dad. Knife injury in the kitchen.”
“Is that why you’re home?” my mom asks worriedly as she leads me toward the couch so I can sit. In mere moments, I’m covered by a blanket with an ice pack propped up underneath my hand. I have a cup of tea cooling on the coffee table in front of me and a plate overflowing with Italian sprinkle cookies resting beside it.
My mom tries to stick a thermometer in my mouth, and I bat her hand away.
“Mom, I’m fine.”
“How bad is it? Oh god—can you still use the finger?!”
“Yes. Would you knock it off? I’m fine. I’m only home because my boss”—they both inhale dramatically at the mere mention of Luke—“is out of town this week so he said I could take some vacation days of my own.”
“So generous of him,” my mom says with an approving nod.
Clearly their infatuation with him hasn’t died down since his impromptu FaceTime session. My uncles, cousins, aunts—they’ve all lost their minds over the fact that I’m working for Luke Allen. It got so bad I had to mute my family group text. These people are relentless. Imagine what they’d do if they knew we made out!
“I know a good man when I see one,” my mom goes on, nodding enthusiastically.
“Yeah? So why didn’t you warn me away from Miles?”
She whips her head in my direction so fast I’m surprised she doesn’t pull a muscle. “I did. Several times. I told you in the beginning that I thought he wasn’t right for you and there was something off, but you didn’t listen.”
Oh…
I guess there was a conversation or two at the start of my relationship with Miles, but that was such a whirlwind time in my life because I was getting my footing at Fig & Olive and spending nearly every waking hour up at the restaurant. I most likely assumed she was being overprotective, but now that I think about it, my mom isn’t usually one to warn me away from men. A traditional Italian mom through and through, her greatest hope is that I’ll find an eligible man, settle down, and pop out a litter of children pronto. So if she did warn me away from Miles, it was for good reason. Maybe I should have listened.
She’s watched me process all of this, and she’s already gloating. There’s no need for me to even make the statement, but she cups her hand behind her ear and waves for me to get on with it.
“You were right.”
“Ahh. Music to my ears.” She nods to my dad. “You hear that? I was right. Me.” Then she’s walking away, rattling off rapid-fire Italian strung together so fast I can’t even make out what she’s saying.
Nonna walks out of her room wearing her favorite two-tone pink and aqua windbreaker set we bought for her one Christmas in the early ’00s. She beams when she sees me.
“Hi, Nonna.”
“Hi, bella.” She comes over so she can give me big wet kisses on each of my cheeks. Then she steals my tea and takes the seat beside me on the couch, and that’s where I spend the better part of my afternoon, catching up with my dad and Nonna while my mom starts to prep for our big family dinner. Around 4:00 PM, my aunts and uncles start trickling in with provisions. Nonna starts cursing and elbows her way into the kitchen when she thinks my mom is over-salting the sauce. I offer to help, but everyone shoos me away.
