Page 188 of Steamy Ever After

She did a double take. “Whiskey?”

He nodded. “Tullamore Dew.”

“Oh. That’s…intense.”

He laughed. “Don’t worry. She’s like a well-oiled machine. We top her off regularly and she doesn’t act up.”

“What about your dad?”

He reached for a large bottle of Pisano. “He likes anything red.”

When they reached the register, he pushed her card out of the way when she tried to pay. “This is my gift to them. Let me pay for it,” Erin protested.

“Tough.”

The clerk bagged up the large bottle of red and Giovanni held the door.

“What about your Nona? Does she speak any English?”

“She can, but she rarely does.” He gave her a warning look. “However, she understands everything, so don’t tell any secrets in her presence.”

She wrung her hands as he drove, fidgeting in the front seat. Giovanni adored his grandmother, but Erin remembered the little old lady from when she dated Finn. She was small but terrifying. Back then, she’d had jet black hair and blood-red lips. She only wore black. Once she smacked Finn’s hand because he tried to steal a cannoli before Sunday dinner. After that, Erin did her best to avoid the woman.

Her stomach churned with uncertainty. “What if they don’t like me?”

“They’ll love you.”

“What if?—”

He grabbed her hand and brought it to his lips, kissing her fingers and then biting her knuckle sweetly. He did that a lot and it had a strange calming effect on her. “It’ll be fine. Relax.”

The house was simple and constructed of dark red bricks. Snow still covered the lawn, so she couldn’t see much as far as landscaping, but she did catch the head of a statue sticking out of the snow by the cement steps.

It was Mary. They had a two-foot statue of Jesus’s mother on their lawn.

“Are your parents super religious?” she whispered, sure they were aware that Giovanni slept at her house almost every night.

“We’re Catholic.” He opened the door, giving no more explanation to the depths of their faith.

The scent of garlic and basil thickened the air and voices carried from the back of the house.

“You need the olive oil to balance out the acidity,” a male voice boomed. “Don’t argue with me, Mariella. I’ve been doing this for years.”

“Nona, tell him it’s got enough oil. He’s gonna ruin it.”

Giovanni led her into the kitchen where a large pot steamed and another pot boiled, spattering red bubbles on the glass top. Italian Mary shoved Giovanni’s father aside.

“You ruin the sauce with too much. It needs’a time.” She swatted him away with a stained wooden spoon and he turned, licking the spatter of sauce off his hand. “Giovanni, thank God you’re here. I get nothin’ but abuse in this house full of women.”

Erin clung to his side. “You have a lovely home.” She hadn’t spoken loud enough or fast enough because no one seemed to hear her.

Mr. Mosconi pulled a jar of what looked like pickled red onions out of the fridge and carried a strainer of rinsed broccoli to the counter. “How you doin’, Erin?”

It hadn’t occurred to her that Giovanni’s parents might remember her from hanging around the McCulloughs.

This time she spoke a little louder. “Thank you for inviting me.”

“Sit,” he ordered, pointing at a chair.

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