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I might pretend like I’m patient enough to wait, but that’s not me. I can’t wait for him forever. And the problem in this relationship is that it’s supposed to be forever. We’re signing up for forever, and I really don’t think he understands that.
“You’re being dramatic,” he starts.
Yeah, screw being patient. Those three words are enough to make me blow up in his face.
“Excuse me?” I screech. “I’m being dramatic? You’re the one that can’t be bothered to think that most other people have much more emotional range. Your head is so fucking far up your own ass, you don’t even realize that other people have feelings!”
The most annoying part about getting angry with Christian is that he remains calm the entire time. So now I’m the one looking like a crazy person. He crosses his arms over his chest.
“Well, this is an interesting conversation to walk into,” someone says, drawing both our attention.
Christian turns around to face the speaker while my eyes widen. I know I was just talking about seeing his mother, but now that she’s here, I wish she hadn’t shown up.
She’s shorter than I expected. Martina D’Angelo couldn’t be taller than five-foot-three, with curly dark hair and eyes similar to Christian’s, except his are much lighter. One look at her and I can see exactly where Christian got his good looks from. She is decked head to toe in designer, and the Gucci scarf around her neck is a clear sign that this a woman who knows fashion and indulges in shopping quite often. She stands regal and tall, looking every bit the wife of a Don. I shift uncomfortably. I never would have thought a middle-aged woman would make me self-conscious. But I’m in jean shorts and a crop top while she looks like she just stepped off the cover ofVogue Italy.
She looks at both of us underneath her dark eyelashes, lips pursed and the expression on her face the universal you’re-in-trouble-with-Mammalook.
I swallow softly, stepping forward to meet her.
“Mrs. D’Angelo. It’s lovely to meet you,” I say calmly, pretending like I wasn’t just yelling at her son a few seconds ago.
She stares at my hand like there are bugs crawling up it, her brown eyes lighting up as they meet my face.
“Don’t be ridiculous,cara,” she snorts, pulling me by the hand and wrapping her arms around me. “I am so excited to meet you.”
Her voice is soft and upbeat. She sounds just as excited as she claims. I grin. Maybe I was worried for nothing. Then her gaze sharpens, moving to her son.
“One month, Chris. One month and you’re already drivingmi nuoracrazy. Is this how I raised you?”
She says a few other words in Italian I can’t follow, but judging by the way Christian’s expression sours, I get the gist.
“You don’t even know what happened,Mamma,” Christian snaps.
“I know you’re probably acting like a dumbass,” his mom retorts. She’s still holding my arm, her grip warm and firm. I can’t help the smile that climbs up my face at the sight of Christian being scolded.
“And you?” she says, whirling around to face me. I gulp. The woman is terrifying. “If Christian was bothering you, why didn’t you call me? I would have straightened him out for you.”
“Um, I wasn’t aware I had the option?” I say the words like a question. “I’ll be sure to call you from now on, ma’am.”
She rolls her eyes. “Enough with the ‘ma’am’ nonsense. Either you call me Martina or you call meMamma. Okay?”
Warmth rolls through me and my gaze softens as I look at her. “Okay.” I nod.
“Family meeting in the living room,” Martina suddenly announces.
Christian’s eyes narrow. “My brothers aren’t here. We can’t have a family meeting without them.”
Martina scoffs. “My son is here, and my daughter-in-law as well. Don’t tell me what I can and can’t do, Christian. You may be the Don but I am still your mother. Now, get your ass in that living room!”
Smug satisfaction rolls through me. I’m pretty sure Martina D’Angelo just became my new favorite person in the entire world.
“She’s not your daughter-in-law yet,” Christian mutters as he walks past us on the way to the living room.
My heart freezes over at that. Martina gives me a look and I see worry flicker in her expression for a moment. But she doesn’t dwell on it, her signature smile quickly taking over as she leads me over to the living room. She guides me toward the couch right beside Christian.
“Sit,” she orders. I don’t waste a second, pressing my butt onto the couch. She places her hands on her hips, looking at each of us in turn. “Now, tell me what the problem is.”
“There’s no problem,” Christian says immediately. “We were having an argument. One that I’ll be sure to resolve as soon as you leave,Mamma.”
