Page 73 of The Curveball
“No one saysscoundrelanymore. I’m using it. Let’s bring back the nineteenth century.”
“Well, you better get your hands off me then, or you’ll scandalize me. And we need a chaperone.”
“Never mind.” I nip at her ear and release her, stepping back. “You still nervous?”
Today is my mom’s dinner. Where we were supposed to be faking a romance, now it’s genuine.
Wren shakes out her hands and takes a deep breath. “Totally nervous. Please promise me it won’t be like my dad’s.”
“It’ll be on the opposite side of the spectrum. Cross my heart.” I chuckle and pull her against my chest, speckling kisses up her neck. “We could stay here, call in a raincheck. In fact, I like the idea of staying in a lot more.”
She wiggles in my arms, laughing when my rough cheek teases the soft skin of her throat. “No. Marks. No. We have to be grown-ups and do grown-up relationship things like meet each other’s families.”
“We can meet them at the wedding.”
She snorts. “Oh, is there a wedding I need to know about?”
“Someday, Birdie. Definitely someday.”
Wren’s smile brushes against my neck. “I guess we’ll see, Marks.”
We will see. But it’s different with Wren. I’ve done the whole play the field thing. I’ve dated enough to notice the difference between something shallow and something real. Something worth building, worth keeping.
Wren is what I want. She’s tomorrow, the next day, the next fifty years. I’ve known a connection went deeper since the second she snapped at me and gave Parker the suggestion to win back Skye.
She tries to hide that genuine, big heart under sarcasm and distance from people she doesn’t know, but I see her. And what I see is exactly what I want.
For a moment she lets me hold her close, her gentle fingers run along my spine. The woman could control my every move if she keeps touching me this way. When she gets to my neck and sort of massages the back, I’m a goner. It’s a whisper of a touch, but leaves a lasting tattoo of Wren’s fingertips on my skin.
“You’re making it hard to leave,” I whisper.
“Likewise.” Wren frees a long sigh and pulls back. “But I need to make a good impression, and my mom will hunt us down if we’re not there soon. We better go.”
She leads us out toward the garage and climbs into my jeep, insisting she’s the DJ on the ride over. I’d let her do anything if it keeps her sexy-self in that seat, at my side, always.
With such a crowd coming, my mom decided to host the dinner in the back of the bakery. The building is an old house on the outer rim of Las Vegas and has a large patio where patrons can sit at vintage iron tables beneath a pergola laced in fairy lights.
As a kid I always viewed this place as magical when it was quiet and night settled over the desert. Tonight, it’s perfect. We’re late enough most everyone has already arrived.
I take Wren’s hand when we step out of the car and stand on the curb for a few breaths. Chatter and the clink of dishes hint food is about to be served with or without us. Try telling a bunch of Italians they can’t eat.
Laughter spills around every edge of the house. My uncle’s deep boom. My cousin Diego’s follows.
“You know, it sounds like they don’t even need us,” Wren says.
I groan and pull her toward the side gate. “Don’t tempt me, Birdie.”
The backyard is packed. A long table lines the center of the yard, and the air is soaked in rich garlic. It’s a sight. My family is there. Marti’s three kids range from sixteen to ten. Her two older boys are locked on their cell phones while my cousin barks at them to pour the water in the glasses. My other cousins are there with their families. Most have kids except the youngest, Corina. She’s five years older than me and engaged to a guy who reminds me of James Bond.
He wears a suit most days, speaks like he’s a dictionary, and peeks over his shoulder enough I half expect someone to jump out and start a shootout any second.
MyZiaRosie smacksZioEnzo in the chest when he picks at one of the pans of lasagna. He presses a kiss to her cheek and snags a small piece of garlic bread during the distraction. They’ve never changed. Always loud, nosy, but head over heels for each other. They’re old fashioned and always insisted we use the Italian words for aunt and uncle, but I think it’s what makes us a little unique.
My dad’s side of the family was smaller, but as staunch in their Irish ways as my mom’s Italian side.
Put them together and this place is always filled with too much eating and never quiet. Parker and Skye help Marti load the table with plates. Ryder showed his grumbly face and talks sports, no doubt, with Marti’s husband.
“Hey, Dax came,” Wren whispers.