15. Fifteen
Fifteen
Nate
Standing outside the Monroes’ white stucco house in St. Augustine, I’m rethinking my definition of hell. A month ago, I might have said it was crowds or watching the stock market plummet. Now? Being the center of attention at a family dinner might take the top spot.
The scent of garlic and tomatoes wafts through open windows, mixing with the sweet perfume of potted flowers that spill over the porch railing. Inside, voices rise and fall like competing instruments, all trying to be heard at once.
Lacey fidgets beside me, her sundress catching the evening breeze. I try not to stare at how the fabric clings to her curves, how the hem dances against her thighs. When she turns to face me, worry etched across her features, the fading sunlight catches in her hair, and for a moment, I forget to breathe.
“You can still make a run for it,” she murmurs, tilting her head up to look at me, her face filled with something almost like worry. “I won’t blame you.”
I arch a brow. “That bad?”
“You don’t understand.” She shifts to face me fully. “You’re about to enter a war zone.”
I can’t help the grin that tugs at my lips. “Didn’t know dinner involved heavy artillery.”
“Just remember, my mom’s going to hug you. A lot.” Lacey wraps her hand around my arm before we proceed up the path to her parents’ house. “And she’ll try to feed you until you burst. And everyone talks at once, and—“
“Lacey.” I cover her hand with mine, stilling her nervous movements. “It’ll be fine.”
She looks up at me with those big brown eyes and bites her lip. “You say that now, but you haven’t met the Romano side of the family yet.”
Before I can respond, the front door flies open, and a whirlwind of dark hair and floral perfume descends upon us.
“Lacey! Tesoro mio!” A woman, Mrs. Monroe, whom I recognize from her FaceTime, engulfs her daughter in a tight embrace. She’s tiny, barely reaching Lacey’s shoulder, but she radiates an energy that fills the entire porch. “Running late again, I see.”
“And you must be Nate!” She turns to me, and I suddenly find myself wrapped in an equally enthusiastic hug. “Call me Maria. Welcome to the family!”
I shoot Lacey an amused look over her mother’s head. She mouths ‘sorry,’ but I’m surprised to find I don’t mind. There’s something genuinely warm about Maria’s welcome that puts me at ease.
“Thank you for having me, Mrs—, Maria,” I correct myself, recognizing her mock stern look.
“Come in, come in! Everyone’s dying to meet you. Robert!” she calls into the house. “They’re here!”
The inside of the house is exactly what I’d expect from Lacey’s childhood home—warm, inviting, and filled with family photos. A tall, quiet man emerges from what appears to be a study, reading glasses perched on his head.
“Welcome, young man,” he says, extending his hand. His handshake is firm, his manner reserved—a stark contrast to his wife’s exuberance. “Robert Monroe.”
“Nice to meet you, sir,” I say to her father, but my attention splits when Lacey shifts beside me, her bare shoulder brushing my arm. The casual touch shouldn’t affect me this much, but everything about her seems heightened in this environment.
“Dad.” Lacey hugs her father, and I catch a glimpse of where she gets her competitive spirit when I spot several tennis trophies prominently displayed on a shelf.
“Your sister’s in the kitchen with the aunts,” Maria announces, already herding us toward the back of the house. “Blaire! Look who’s here!”
The scene is controlled chaos. Three women who look like older variations of Maria are clustered around the island, all talking at once in a mix of English and Italian, while an older version of Lacey stands at the stove, stirring something that smells amazing.
“So this is the rockstar,” Blaire says by way of greeting, her eyes sharp but not unfriendly as they assess me. Unlike Lacey’s warm brown eyes, hers are a cool grey that miss nothing.
“Nate, these are my aunts—Sophia, Lucia, and Gianna,” Maria introduces the other women, who immediately begin fussing over me.
“Too skinny,” one declares. “Here, taste the sauce.”
“Such nice arms, though,” another comments, actually reaching out to squeeze my bicep. “Good for drumming, yes?”
“Leave the poor boy alone,” Robert calls from the doorway, rescuing me. “Come watch the game with me, Nate. Let them finish cooking.”
I follow him gratefully, but not before catching Lacey’s eye. The look she gives me is equal parts apologetic and something else—something that makes my pulse quicken. The sundress she’s wearing shifts with every movement, drawing my attention. Even in the midst of her family, I’m acutely aware of her—the subtle floral scent of her perfume.
“So, drums?” Robert’s voice snaps me back to the present as we settle into comfortable chairs in his study. A baseball game plays quietly on the TV.
“Yes. Since I was twelve.”
He nods approvingly. “Good age to start. Gives you time to develop real skill.” He gestures to a shelf of books. “I played jazz in college. Nothing professional, but...”
The conversation flows easily after that. Robert, it turns out, is a wealth of knowledge about music history, and I find myself genuinely enjoying our discussion about the evolution of percussion in different genres. We then move on to the topic of sports.
From the kitchen, I can hear the women laughing, their voices rising and falling like music. Occasionally, Lacey’s laugh rings out clear and bright, making something warm unfurl in my chest.
“It can be overwhelming at first,” Robert comments, noting my attention to the kitchen chaos. “The Romano women... they’re a force of nature. But you get used to it.” He smiles fondly. “They love fiercely. Accept you completely. Even if they do try to feed you to death.”
“I can see where Lacey gets it,” I say without thinking. “The fierce part, I mean.”
Robert’s eyes twinkle knowingly. “Yes, she’s very much her mother’s daughter. Though she got her competitive streak from both sides.”
As if on cue, Lacey appears in the doorway. “Dinner’s almost ready,” she announces. “The rest of the family should be arriving soon.” She then frowns suspiciously. “What are you two talking about?”
“Sports,” Robert says smoothly, winking at me.
She doesn’t believe us for a second, but before she can interrogate us further, the doorbell rings.
The next five minutes are a blur of introductions, cheek kisses, loud voices, and so many hands clapping me on the back that I half-expect to have bruises tomorrow.
The Monroe family—or rather, the Romano side of it—is big.
Uncles, aunts, cousins, and a few people who I think are just friendly neighbors but are welcomed like blood relatives. They talk loud, and they all talk fast.
I barely keep up, but surprisingly, I don’t mind it.
Our eyes meet across the space of her family’s kitchen, and something electric passes between us. She’s different here—more relaxed, more herself—and watching her move through this space, laughing with her relatives, she’s never been more beautiful.
Maria then claps her hands, “Dinner is ready.”
As I follow Lacey to the dining room, my hand finds the small of her back automatically. She leans into my touch, and for a moment, I forget this is all supposed to be for show. Because right now, surrounded by her family, with her warm and real beside me, nothing about this feels fake at all.
Lacey watches me closely, looking for signs of panic, but I just let the noise wash over me.
If anything, it’s fascinating.
One of the aunts, I couldn’t tell you which one, looks at me sternly and declares, “Sit! Eat! You’re too skinny!”
“I’m not—“
A steaming plate of homemade pasta materializes in front of me.
Well, okay then.
Lacey slides into the seat next to me. “I told you.”
I chuckle, twirling some pasta onto my fork. “I’m not entirely sure, but I think I’m winning so far.”
“You think you’re winning?” Her voice drops into that sultry, competitive tone. “Nate, me and my family always win.”
Oh, this woman. The heat between us sizzles for half a second before we’re interrupted by someone passing around what looks to be a massive bowl of antipasto—an artful display of olives, salami, cheeses, roasted peppers, and marinated artichokes that practically scream of family tradition. It’s all followed by an overflowing basket of buttery garlic bread—my mouth waters at the enticing aromas.
As everyone settles into their meal around the large dining room, the noise seems to quiet just enough to make the chatter feel more intimate, yet still full of that unmistakable, vibrant energy.
Conversations overlap and weave together: debates about who makes the best marinara, local gossip, and family stories I’m already being pulled into. It should be overwhelming, but there’s something magnetic about their easy intimacy, the way they fold newcomers into their circle without hesitation.
Lacey instinctively grabs the serving spoon for the roasted peppers, scooping some onto my plate and hers. Our shoulders brush, a small reminder that even here, in the middle of all this noise and family, I’m aware of her.
Someone clears their throat, and I look up to see Lacey’s older sister, Blaire, watching me with a curious gleam in her eyes.
“So, Nate,” Blaire says, her tone deceptively casual as she reaches for the garlic bread. “What made you decide to settle down now? I mean, my sister’s got a career, a future. She doesn’t need some rockstar breaking her heart just for fun.”
She ignores Lacey’s sharp “Blaire!” and keeps her eyes fixed on me. There’s nothing casual about how she’s watching my reaction, protective older sister mode in full force.
Lacey tenses beside me, but I squeeze her knee under the table.
“Neither do I.” Setting my glass down, steady and deliberate, I continue, “Sometimes, you meet someone who makes you want to take a risk.” I turn to look at Lacey before glancing back at her sister. “It’s a chance we’re taking together.”
Blaire’s expression flickers, something unreadable passing over her features. And I see a hint of approval beneath the questions.
The conversations around us resume. It’s loud, yes, but it’s warm, and there’s something undeniably comforting about the feeling of belonging. Here, I’m not the rockstar in the room. I’m just Nate, and it feels good. I’d almost forgotten how good having family around can feel.
As we near the end of the meal, Lacey’s father glances at me as he stands. “So, Nate. Do you play chess?”
I blink. “I—yes. A little.”
Lacey stiffens beside me. “Oh no,” she mutters, but I’m already pushing back my chair.
Mr. Monroe moves toward the living room, where an old wooden chessboard sits on a side table.
I follow, sitting across from him, and the whole house immediately goes silent. As if I just unknowingly walked into some kind of sacred ritual.
Lacey rubs her temples. “Dad, please don’t scare him away.”
“This is not scaring,” he says calmly, setting up the board. “This is learning.”
“Oh my God.” She groans. “What does that even mean?”
Her father just shrugs.
I glance back at Lacey, amusement flickering in my chest. She looks exasperated.
I grin, picking up a pawn. “You don’t want me to play, Lacey?”
Her lips part. “I—“
“Afraid I’ll win?” I taunt her, making her eyes flash. And that’s all I need to know.
I move my first piece, settling into the game, while the room fills with hushed whispers and side bets—because, of course, her family is making bets on the newcomer.
Lacey perches on the arm of my chair to watch the game, and the subtle scent of her cologne mingles with the warm, homey smells of dinner. Every slight movement brings her closer until I’m more aware of her proximity than the chess pieces in front of me. When she shifts, her thigh brushes my arm, and I nearly knock over my king.
By the time we’re halfway through, I hear someone murmur, “Damn, he’s actually holding his own.”
Lacey throws up her hands. “Oh, come on! I knew I should’ve warned him—“
Her father finally cracks a smile. “He’s good.”
Lacey narrows her eyes. “Dad, you’re just toying with him. You—“
“I like this one,” her father declares, moving his knight. “Check.”
I curse under my breath, staring at the board.
Lacey slowly shakes her head as she sits back, arms folded, watching me squirm.
Damn.
I eye her father. “This was a trap, wasn’t it?”
He takes a slow sip of his wine. “Welcome to the family, Nate.”
The room erupts in laughter. And as much as I should feel like I’ve just been thrown into the deep end, I don’t. I feel…fine. Hell, better than fine.
I glance at Lacey. She’s watching me closely, like she’s still expecting me to get angry, to hate this, to hate them.
Instead, I just lean back, laughing as I gesture at the chessboard.
“Rematch?”
She exhales, rolling her eyes, but there’s something in her gaze—something softer, something warm.
And as I sit there, surrounded by the warmth and chaos of her family, I realize something else—I don’t mind how she’s gotten under my skin. I don’t mind how my body instinctively seeks her out in a room and how my hand finds the small of her back without thinking. I don’t mind any of it—and that alone should scare the living hell out of me—but it doesn’t.