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Walking into that shithole of a ranch last night, she’d given me quite the surprise. I’d been walking the mile out to their property every night to make sure her father’s animals were eating, because I couldn’t bear to leave those innocent creatures, even if their owner had been a prick.
Imagine my shock when Cassandra Mauer, famous actress, was standing in the middle of that rundown kitchen.
Fuck, she’s more beautiful now than she’d ever been. And my teenage self used all his restraint to keep his hands to himself where she was concerned. That restraint had only broken once, that night in high school when she found me in the woods on the ATV, and I offered her a ride. The feel of her hands around my waist was the material for my spank bank for months after.
Of course, I’ve seen her gorgeous face plastered everywhere for years. With those sharp cheekbones, stunning green eyes, and a mane of red hair that flamed like the surface of the sun, it was a no-brainer that Hollywood snatched her right up. With that Marilyn Monroe-esque beauty mark on her right cheek and the supple swell of her breasts for how lithe her body is, she’s impossible not to look at. While people might have shunned her for being Butch’s daughter, it didn’t stop all the guys in school from lusting after her or commenting on how fucking hot she was. And that had been back then. In the decade or so since I’d seen her last in front of my own eyes, she’s only grown to become a more beautiful woman, filled with silent grace and confidence.
It’s not just her looks though. I’ve watched her movies, not to the knowledge of my family. I had to know if she was the real deal. Well, she fucking is. The woman can act her ass off. It’s no wonder she’s the darling of the movie industry right now.
So it surprised the hell out of me that she came back to deal with her father’s estate. From what I knew, the two hadn’t been in contact in years. Butch, at least, had enough sense not to blast her in the media or beg her for money. Maybe he had, and she cut it off before it leaked. I wouldn’t put it past him.
Not that I would wish death on anyone. I am a very nice person, I swear, but Butch’s death means the end of a lot of problems and annoyances for us. Of course, most of his claims were unfounded, but every time he caused shit for people around here, there would be some type of fallout.
So yeah, my father would not be happy that another Mauer was occupying that house.
A lightbulb goes off because maybe he would be slightly happy. Dad has been trying to buy, steal, or cheat those four acres out of Butch Mauer ever since I could remember, and now he has a plum opportunity to do so. Cassandra would probably want to get that land off her hands as quickly as possible, then scurry back to her expensive smoothies and million-dollar cars in Los Angeles.
That’s what’s on my mind as I park my Jeep in its usual spot in the parking lot across from Hope Pizza; the neon sign turned off this early in the morning. Being a restaurant kid is in my blood, but my hours have changed since becoming the accountant for the place. I’m on the day shift, coming in during normal working hours to look over the books, allocate spending, check on orders, and make sure this very lucrative restaurant is a well-oiled machine.
Hope Pizza occupies a stately brick building with black wrought iron lettering bearing its name. White and red flowers overflow from white stucco pots lining the front walkway, and the scent of baking dough is like my family’s perfume hanging in the air of Newton Street. I may spend more time here than I do in my family’s guesthouse—the place where I took up residence after moving out of my ex-fiancé’s apartment six months ago.
Shoving my key in the front stained-glass paneled door, I let myself in and savor the quiet. The dining room, done in whites and brick with accents of red, “like home,” my grandfather used to say, is empty and sparkly clean thanks to Mom’s diligence with the staff.
“Bubba, is that you?” a weathered voice calls from the kitchen as I pass. My parents expanded the restaurant about seven years ago, right before I graduated and began taking my CPA exams. It’s pretty much assumed that you can pursue any career path you want—so long as it fits in with the family business. Me? I’m, for all intents purposes, the CFO. My younger sister is the marketing guru. My older brother runs the farm, and my little brother just graduated culinary school. We’re all part of the plan, even if we get the freedom to decide what cog we’ll be operating.
Which is why they put in the offices for my sister and me. This building has expanded over the years to quadruple its original size back when it was just a little pizza joint. They’ve remodeled, upgraded, and made the place a real gem in our small town.
Hence why I’m usually passing the kitchen on the way to shutting myself up with my numbers and calculations for the day.
But that voice gives me pause. One, because I’d never deny her attention. And two, because I didn’t think anyone would be in as early as me.
“Hi, Nonna.” I push open the silver swinging doors and glimpse my grandmother with flour all over her hands.
Bending to kiss her, I smile at her progress. I don’t even have to ask her what she’s making or why she’s here at eight o’clock in the morning, because I know both of those answers. I’ve seen her make zeppole thousands of times, rolling the dough and adding just enough sugar to make it sweet but flaky and not too dense.
Why she’s here when the restaurant doesn’t open for five hours? Because she can’t stand to be alone. We lost Nonno ten years ago to cancer. They’d been married for fifty-two years. After being with someone that long, I guess it doesn’t take a genius to figure out how being alone in the home you shared would cause pain.
None of us said a thing about her spending every waking hour at the kitchen counter; it was how she grieved.
“Such a handsome face.” She pats my cheek with her leathery hand. “Who wouldn’t want to make grand babies with this?”
Woah, way too early for that conversation.
“Not for lack of trying.” I shrug, explaining.
And it’s not. My whole family knows about my serial monogamy and refusal to pull the wedding trigger. Not that I want to get into that before I’ve had my morning espresso.
“You got the espresso machine up and working?” I ask.
Nonna was the one who insisted on the top-of-the-line machine, much to the surprise of my youngest brother, who is a culinary machinery connoisseur. But she spent a ton of time in Italy throughout her life and claimed that less expensive machines made the coffee taste like shit—her words, not mine. So Dad sprung for the one I’m about to use to make his mother-in-law happy.
“Do I look like a servant? Make your own,” she scolds.
Ah, that matriarchal love, they’ll kiss your cheeks before smacking them. I do as she tells me and fire it up, already jonesing for the bitter liquid.
“Your father just called about the prosciutto shipment. He’s complaining about switching providers again.” Nonna rolls her eyes as she rolls out the dough.
My father might have married into the DiNicoli family, hence our non-Italian last name, but he’s as much a part of this place as my Napolitano great-grandparents were. From the day he met Mom, he claims it was love at first sight with both her and the pizza shop. Training under my Nonno to try to impress him was how he ended up asking for her hand in marriage, and when it finally came time to pass the pizzeria on, my grandfather was only too happy to give Dad the reins.
