Page 8 of Friends Who Fake It

Francesco was used to big family events. When you were a Santoro, participation in the regular pizza dinners that his uncle Gianni hosted was not optional. It was more than a birthright; it was a dyed in the wool expectation. But Santoro dinners were very different to this.

Chalk and cheese.

Or Pizza and Pate.

Santoro occasions were full of food, wine, lively music and conversation, relaxed by the pool unless the weather absolutely drove them indoors, as it tended to around Christmas and New Years. They chatted about their lives, their work, their concerns; they shared their worries, their triumphs. They were afamily.But Francesco was starting to realise that not all families operated in the same way.

If he had to choose a single word to describe the Von Bates gathering, it would be…frigid.

Even the chairs were cold and awkward, he thought, as he rearranged himself on the seat that was too small for a man his size, and too upright for anyone. It was also very, very old, so with each movement Francesco made to try to find a more comfortable position, the chair gave a little creak of complaint, a taunt, a threat that if he didn’t stay still, the chair was going to give out on him altogether.

Willow sat to his left, looking as though the chair was, in fact, the most comfortable chair that had ever chaired. Her shoulders were a perfect level, her head held high, and when she wasn’t eating, her hands were clasped neatly in her lap.

She was like a statue.

Her stepmother was exactly the same.

The twins showed a little more animation, though whenever it burst through—like sunshine from behind the clouds—Meredith was there with a quick reprimand. Never mind that they were nineteen years old and of an age when theyshouldhave been messing around and playing the clown.

He compressed his lips and tried to conceal any hint of disapproval from his features, as Baxter continued to talk about global shipping trends, and an investment he’d recently made that was turning out to be far more profitable than he’d anticipated.

Usually, it was just the kind of topic Francesco would have found himself enjoying, even contributing to, but the suffocating atmosphere of the formal dining room was almost too much to bear.

He also, as a rule, had no issue with hunting, when done humanely and quickly. But the sheer number of mounted buck heads that were staring down on them with those long, profoundly awe inspiring antlers and glassy eyes, was unnerving, to say the least.

“You know, they all have names,” Willow whispered, as she gently dabbed imaginary soup from the sides of her pastel pink mouth, and glanced up at him quickly. Conversation had moved from shipping to the party guests, and Meredith was now actively involved and no longer paying attention to Willow.

He looked down at his fake girlfriend, not understanding.

“That’s Garth,” she nodded towards the buck above the fireplace. “He’s very old. My grandfather got him, on the edge of the property.”

He followed her gaze, frowning a little.

“That there is Nixon. My dad’s first kill. That’s Regis. And Remi. That’s Fawcett. And that poor unfortunate chap is Nevil.”

“Nevil?”

“Mmm.”

“You sound as though you don’t like Nevil.”

“I don’t.”

“Why not?”

“He has the misfortune of sharing a name with a boy who made me cry once.”

Francesco leaned closer. “What did he do?”

“Pulled my hair,” she said. His eyes widened, and she laughed.

“It was the first day of nursery school; I never forgave him.”

Francesco relaxed. He hadn’t liked the protective instincts her comment had raised in him, the way the image of anyone hurting her had made him tense up.

“So, you named a deer after him.”

“Oh, yes. Very happily.”

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