Page 215 of Love Me Stalk Me
Luca's fork clatters against his plate. Matteo's eyebrows shoot up so far they nearly disappear into his hairline. Mama gasps, hand flying to her chest like she's having heart palpitations. Nonna crosses herself three times in quick succession, muttering rapid-fire prayers.
"I'm so sorry," Nico finally says, utterly sincere.
Cal looks at me, confusion written all over his face.
I bite back a laugh. “In this house, jarred sauce is blasphemy.”
“Bestemmia!” Nonna declares, jabbing her fork in Cal’s direction. Her voice is harsh, but her eyes are gleaming with affection. Then she adds something else, waving her hand dismissively before pointing at his plate.
“But we’ll fix you. You’re family now. You’ll learn.”
The words settle somewhere deep in my chest. They’ve never said that about Evan. Not once. And hearing Nonna say it—to Cal, who’s only been around for five minutes—it hits me harder than I want to admit.
After that, dinner somehow manages to get even more chaotic. Nonna keeps insisting Cal eat more, piling his plate so high I’m surprised it doesn’t tip the table. Nico keeps trying to challenge him to increasingly ridiculous contests. Luca keeps baiting him with loaded questions, trying to trick him into saying something incriminating while Matteo watches with amused detachment.
Dad just watches it all unfold with a smug smile, sipping his wine like it's the best show he's seen in years, occasionally sneaking food to Tony and Gaga, who have stationed themselves permanently under his chair.
But the best part? The absolute best part? Cal handles it alleffortlessly.
He deflects Nico's challenges with easy smiles and one-liners. He dodges Luca's traps with smooth, calculated answers. And he listens to Nonna like she's the Pope herself, nodding along with every one of her stories while simultaneously finishing an entire extra plate of food just to make her happy.
I just sit there, watching in awe, trying to figure out when exactly this man became so effortlessly woven into my life. At some point, I catch Matteo watching me. When I glance over, he just gives me that look—amused, all-knowing—like he’s already figured something out I haven’t.
I scowl. "What?"
He shrugs.
"Nothing."
And then, under his breath, he mutters?—
"I like him."
Oh no. Oh no, no, no.
Because if Matteo likes him? That means this man is officially family.
EVERY WORD SHE THINKS TURNS HER ON HAS BEEN MINE.
CAL
The drive home is quiet.
Not uncomfortably so, but quiet in a way that tells me Izzy's thinking. Processing. Probably replaying every chaotic second of dinner with her family, cringing at each over-the-top comment her mom made, each inappropriate joke her brothers told, probably wondering if I had a miserable time.
She couldn't be more wrong.
I loved it.
It was loud, messy, hilarious—nothing like my solitary existence—but damn if it wasn't a refreshing change from my quiet routine.
And maybe it makes me realize an important truth, too.
That she's right and I really do need to call my dad.
Izzy clears her throat beside me, shifting in her seat like she's working up the nerve to speak. I glance at her out of the corner of my eye, watching as she presses her lips together, debating. I save her the trouble.
"I had fun," I say, breaking the silence.
