Chapter 9 #2
The fire in his eyes nearly singes me with its intensity. He licks his lips, and I’m ready for him to step closer and kiss me.
“No.”
I’m shocked, not expecting that answer at all.
“You have much work to do, and even now, I can see the creativity flowing through you. Do what you need to. What we have can wait beyond this moment. We have time.” It’s almost like he believes that can be true if he declares it powerfully enough.
He takes one small step to me, giving me time to protest, time to run.
And I should, I know I should with every brain cell I’ve got.
But they are not in control right now, so I meet him, toe to toe.
He cups my jaw, lifting it as he bends down, and light as a butterfly’s kiss, his lips meet mine.
Warm honey flows through my veins at his touch.
It’s over too soon, and then he whispers, “I will be waiting for you.”
I’m still frozen in stunned lust when I blink enough to realize he’s gone.
Holy Shit! He’s so . . . everything. Everything I want and everything I don’t need.
Curious as the proverbial cat, I open the to-go box to find a nice pile of seasoned chicken and grilled veggies.
The delicious aroma works its way through my nose to my stomach, making it growl loudly.
Lorenzo made this for me knowing that I would throw myself into work because that’s what he does too.
I can’t fault him for that, and as I dig in, I’m so grateful that he’s passionate about his work.
“Oh ma gawd,” I moan as I shovel another bite into my mouth. It tastes amazing, the chicken tender and full of spicy-sweet flavor and the veggies cooked to perfection. Before I know it, I’ve inhaled the whole thing and am staring sadly at my now empty box.
“Definitely have energy to work now,” I tell the flowers in warning. “Let’s do this.”
I turn my music on, not whatever crap Janey was listening to but some old club tunes I’m technically too young to even know but love, and I jam out while I work. I’m not the best dancer, but what I lack in skills, I make up for with enthusiasm.
Looking at our to-do list and feeling the inspiration flow through me, I pick up a piece of floral foam and set it on the table in front of me beside a blend of blooms. “Talk to me. Tell me what you wanna become.”
Yeah, I’m one of those people . . . the ones who talk to plants and flowers. But it works, for them and for me. Especially at this stage when it’s all a blank slate waiting for my touch to make magic happen.
I’m head down, hard at it, when my phone dings. I’m surprised to see the hour when I pick it up but not surprised at who’s texting me.
Violet: You up?
Me: Yeah, everything ok?
Instead of an answering text, my phone rings with a FaceTime call. “Hey, Vi, what’s wrong?” I’m already in freakout mode because something has to be drastically off for her to call me at two a.m.
She sighs dramatically, her head thrown back against the chair she’s sitting in.
I recognize that chair—it’s in baby Carly’s nursery.
But I barely recognize my best friend. She’s usually impeccably pulled together, but she’s wearing one of Ross’s oversized white undershirts, her hair is piled haphazardly on top of her head in a don’t-give-a-fuck bun that looks days dirty, and I think there’s applesauce on her shoulder.
Or maybe it’s spit up? God, I hope it’s applesauce.
“Nothing’s wrong, exactly. Your niece just doesn’t know day from night and she’s killing me.” Violet sounds exhausted, and I’m guessing that a middle-of-the-night call while I’m out of town shows just how tight she’s hanging on to the end of her rope.
“Sorry, honey,” I sympathize. “What’s she doing? Not sleeping?”
The guess is met with a snort. “Oh, she sleeps just fine as long as she’s got my boob in her mouth. I’m like the world’s biggest pacifier.” The bundle in her arms shifts, and I realize that Carly is nursing beneath the swaddle of blankets.
Violet sighs again, cooing to her little one. “That’s right, baby. Sleep, sleep, sleep . . .” The over-simple lyrics are soft and sweet and a little desperate.
“What’s Ross doing? Can’t he help you?” Violet is a fantastic mother, someone who took to it readily and with excitement, but she’s also a full-time career woman who needs to get some rest of her own too.
“Daddy went on a work trip for a couple of days,” Violet whispers to Carly as she answers me. “He’s working so hard, and we’re fine. Isn’t that right, little miss savage?”
“Well, if you need anything, call Mom. You know she’d be over to your place in a hot second if she thought there would be baby snuggles when she got there.” My mom might be more than a little obsessed with her first grandchild. “Or if you’re really desperate, your mom.”
Violet hisses, her eyes cutting to the screen. “Don’t you even invoke her name or she’ll show up like freaking Beetlejuice with an army of Italian grandmothers to show me how I’m doing everything wrong.”
I chuckle, certain she’s joking. She’s not doing anything wrong, I’m sure of that.
But Violet doesn’t laugh back. Her face goes a bit pale, and even on the tiny screen, I can see the panic in her eyes. “What if I’m doing it wrong?”
I put down the flower I was working into the arrangement and focus on my best friend tough-love style.
“Violet Russo Andrews, you shut your pie hole. You are an awesome woman, wife, and mother. Charlotte is an amazing, well-adjusted, perfectly healthy, beautiful baby, and that’s all because of you because it sure has nothing to do with my asshole of a brother.
” I throw that last bit in on purpose to distract her.
“Ross isn’t an asshole. He’s so good with Carly. I just miss him.” She presses a soft kiss to the baby’s head, and I can see the sheen of tears in her eyes. “Gah, distract me. Tell me about paradise and this whirlwind wedding. Let me live vicariously through you.”
A laugh pops out before I can stop it, and it’s too loud, disturbing Carly.
Just like I said, the mother instinct in Violet kicks in automatically and she’s soothing the disruption away before she even realizes it.
“What’s funny about that? What happened?
Did you slip and fall into the pool and snort so much water up your nose that you sneezed it out .
. . again? Or get poison ivy when you peed while hiking through the resort grounds?
Or tell the bitchy wedding planner to ‘fuck off’ out loud when you meant to say it in your head? You do tend to do stuff like that.”
She’s right. I do have quite the history of fuck-ups and craziness. But this is on a whole different level.
“Actually, something did happen. Do you remember Emily Jones?”
Violet’s nose crinkles as if Carly just let a stinky one rip, but her reaction isn’t about baby shit but rather about the name Emily Jones. “Ugh, yeah. Why in the world are you bringing her up? Let the past stay in the past, especially the catty, bitchy past.”
“I wish you’d told me that before because she’s here. At the resort. On her honeymoon.”
“Well, good for her.” Violet’s snarky, drawn out tone says loud and clear that she doesn’t think it’s actually good.
“There’s more,” I tell her hesitantly. At that, she leads forward, hungry for the distraction she asked for. “Now, don’t give me shit about this because believe me, I know how it sounds . . .”
“Ooh, this is gonna be good. I can tell,” Vi says eagerly.
“Well, it was when I first got here. Emily saw me and was bragging about her wedding and honeymoon, all the while putting me down—”
Violet interrupts to add, “She always did that, Little Miss Competitive.”
“Before I knew it . . . she thinks I’m on my honeymoon too.”
Eyes wide and mouth open, Violet stammers. “What? How? Why?” And then most importantly, “Who?”
I stick to the easier questions first. “I was standing there, and she was talking smack about my brother and younger sister getting married and how wonderful that must be, except ‘ooh, you never did find someone who would love you, did you?’ ” It might not be exactly what Emily said, but it is what she meant with her cutting remarks.
“And then he just stepped out of nowhere and saved me, telling Emily that we’re on our honeymoon too.
We’ve had two double dates now and she totally believes it. ”
“Wait . . . so you’re on a fake honeymoon?” Violet says meaningfully. “Along with the most important job of your career?”
I nod. I won’t hide the fake honeymoon thing, not from her. I know how much it hurt being lied to when she and Ross had their thing going on. As messed up as this whole thing is, I’ll own it. Even the hard part, which she hasn’t realized yet.
“So, who is this mystery knight in shining armor?”
Whoops, spoke too soon. That’s the ten-thousand-dollar question with the million-dollar answer. “Uhm, well . . . you see . . .”
Violet can sniff blood in the water. My blood. “Who’s the guy?”
“Lorenzo.”
“What?” she screeches. Carly goes ramrod straight in her arms and returns the scream, starting to wail.
Violet stands up, bouncing and swaying with the baby in one hand and the phone in the other.
“My cousin, Lorenzo?” When I nod, she lays down the gauntlet.
“Abigail Andrews, you’d better start explaining now. ”
I expect Vi to say something to me about how I chose this time to do something or to say I’m being stupid doing this in the middle of a very important business deal, but instead, she tilts her head, confused. “Wait . . . why would he be there?”
I shake my head, shrugging. “Somehow, he got offered a short-term gig for the wedding too. He’s making fettuccine. You really didn’t know?”
Violet glares at me. “Yeah, I knew my best friend and my cousin were working on the same event, going to the same place for a week, but it somehow slipped my mind to mention it as I helped you pack your suitcase.”
Gee, dial down the sarcasm, girl.