Chapter Five-Andrea
I swallow hard, pretending like I’m not suddenly wishing I’d worn the dress that doesn’t wrinkle in the lap or cling in the waist.
I tear my eyes away, force my feet to move.
Don’t look desperate, Andrea.
Don’t look hopeful.
Because here’s the thing—I don’t know if this is fate handing me a second shot at my baby plan, or if it’s just a cruel twist of the universe.
A cosmic joke at my expense.
Because, Remy Falco?
He was not supposed to be more than a memory.
A really, really hot memory.
And now he’s standing here—looking at me like I’m not just the girl from the wedding he slept with once—but like I’m something more.
And damn it.
Some messed up, romantic part of me wants to believe maybe I am.
“There’s my little sis.”
Sammy’s voice hits my ears a split second before his shoulder bumps into mine, nearly knocking me off balance.
Classic bonehead brother move.
I stumble slightly, heels skidding across the polished stone floor—because of course I wore sandals with too much heel to a family dinner party. In Verona. In late summer. At the Callahans’ palace of a home.
Honestly, I was just trying to make it to the hors d’oeuvres without tripping over my own bad decisions.
But no. Sammy has to shoulder-check me like we’re playing full-contact tag, and I’m one second away from landing face-first into Clementine’s absurdly perfect hydrangea arrangement when—
One large, warm, entirely familiar hand wraps around my elbow.
“Easy,” Remy’s voice rumbles, low and steady.
His grip is firm. His touch grounding. His palm spans nearly the whole damn width of my arm.
And—unfortunately—my entire body remembers him.
Every touch.
Every kiss.
Every filthy, perfect, panty-destroying second of our island night together.
My thighs clench like I’m trying to keep the memory from escaping.
“You good?” he murmurs, and damn him, he sounds amused.
“I’m fine,” I squeak.
Absolutely squeak.
Like a guilty girl caught red-handed in the church donation basket.
Ugh.
I clear my throat and shoot my brother a glare, trying to shake off the mortification and regain an ounce of dignity.
“Jesus, Sam, can you not launch me like a frisbee?”
“What?” he shrugs, totally unrepentant. “You were in my path.”
“Your path? This isn’t a racetrack. You don’t get right of way just because you’re bigger.”
Sammy grins and slaps Remy on the back, utterly oblivious to the tension sizzling between us.
“Hey, Falco. Didn’t know you were gonna be here tonight.”
Remy still hasn’t let go of my arm.
Why hasn’t he let go?
Why am I not pulling away?
Why is my body a live wire under his palm?
“Callahan invited me,” he says, all casual charm. “Said it was just a small thing.”
“Nothing’s ever small when it comes to this family,” Sammy mutters.
Then his eyes narrow, flicking between me and Remy. His brow furrows like he’s doing some internal math and doesn’t like the sum.
“What’s this?”
“What’s what?” I ask, trying to play off the fact Remy still has a hold of my arm.
Thankfully, Aella calls him over to help with their baby, distracting him.
“You two are being fucking weird,” he mumbles.
Sammy finally walks away, muttering to himself the whole time.
I exhale like I’ve been holding my breath for ten years.
Remy leans in, voice low and unmistakably teasing.
“So, Sammy didn’t punch me.”
“Yeah, we’re all so proud. He’s practically house trained,” I mutter, trying to sound breezy even though my heart is racing like it’s in a damn racecar.
“You said he’d deck me if he found out about us.”
“There is no us,” I reply too fast. Too defensive.
Remy lifts a brow.
“Right. Just one night in paradise. No big deal.”
“Exactly.” I nod, as if I’m convincing him. Or myself. “People have those. It’s not, you know, uncommon.”
“You keep saying that. Like you’re trying to believe it.”
My mouth opens, then closes.
He’s not wrong.
Remy watches me too closely, like he’s waiting for me to unravel.
And honestly? I might. Right here. In my cousin’s foyer.
“Look,” I whisper. “Whatever that was—on the island—it was fun. Wild. But you don’t have to pretend like it meant something.”
He steps closer, voice dropping even lower. “What if it did?”
I don’t get the chance to answer because—cue the Auntie Parade.
“Oh, is that my beautiful niece?”
My mom and her sisters-in-law, and sisters-of-the-heart, descend like a tactical strike of lipstick, perfume, and unsolicited opinions.
“Ay, Andrea, you look gorgeous, baby!”
“She looks thin! Are you eating? Is Adrik working you too hard again?”
“Don’t you let him push you around, sweetie!”
“No, Auntie Sof, work is great. Uncle Ad is an angel,” I say truthfully as I get passed around for kisses, shoulder pats, and light critiques.
Out of the corner of my eye, I see Remy standing there—still and amused—as the entire Volkov-Fury female contingent proceeds to fuss over me.
But then something happens.
The herd pivots.
They turn to him.
Aunt Anna gives him a once-over. “Well, Remy Falco, you clean up nice!”
“Yes, ma’am,” he says, charm turned up to eleven. “It’s so nice to see you again.”
“Oh, honey, call me Anna.”
“I would,” he says with a sly grin, “but I’m pretty sure Mr. Fury would have my head if I did.”
There’s a beat of silence.
Then Aunt Sisi smirks. “Well, he’s not wrong.”
The women cackle.
I mean, cackling like they’re all twenty again and Remy’s the hottest thing to hit Sunday dinner since Uncle Adrik wore tight jeans—so they say. Whatever.
I mean to me, he’s like my dad, so yeah, it’s super gross when they talk about him in tight jeans.
As for Remy? He is definitely attractive.
That panty-melting smile of his?
Yeah. I have to clutch the wine glass one of them thrust at me a little tighter.
Because no matter how much I pretend I’m over it—over him—my body doesn’t lie.
And from the way he’s watching me, like I’m the next meal he’s about to devour, well, I’m pretty sure we’re both about to be in trouble.
After a few minutes of sharp-eyed conversation, the aunts dissolve to torture my sisters and cousins.
I choke a little as Aunt Maria mouths, “bag that hottie” before she walks away with the rest of them.
“Wow. They are really protective of you.”
“Yeah. Of all of us, really,” I say, smiling as I watch them make the rounds.
Fact is, I want to be them one day. I want what they have.
But how can I accomplish that without a man or a baby?
Don’t think about that now.
“Remind me never to make you cry.”
I freeze for a second.
Not because I think he will, but because something about the way he says it—quiet, serious, almost protective—makes my breath catch.
I try to play it off, nudge his arm.
“You planning on doing something worth crying over?”
His eyes darken.
“Only in the good way, Andy.”
My knees wobble.
“Stop calling me that.”
“What? Andy?”
“Yes. My name is Andrea.”
His smile turns cocky.
“Andy is cute. Suits you.”
I scoff. “It suits me like Crocs suit a catwalk.”
“I don’t know shit about catwalks, but Andy fits. It’s disarmingly sexy. Just like you.”
“Remy.”
“Andy.”
God help me, I want to climb him like a tree.
“Go mingle or something,” I say, waving him off before I do something reckless. Again.
“What if I want to stay here with you?”
“Then I think you should be ready to answer some questions because here come my father and uncles,” I say it as a threat. But Remy doesn’t seem intimidated.
He sips his drink and takes another long look at me.
“I’ll go if you want—”
“Yes, I want before someone else accuses us of being ‘fucking weird.’”
He chuckles, finally letting go of my elbow—but not before his fingers brush a slow trail down my arm.
“Until later, sweet Andy.”
And then he walks away, leaving me standing there, flustered, with damp panties and my heart pounding.
Remy Falco? Oh yeah. he is a fucking problem.
But I think I might want to be his solution.