Page 10 of Highball and Chain

“I’m not cranky. I’m exhausted. I don’t know how Maggie made this flight four months pregnant.” I left Enzo with my luggage. If he wanted to carry it, he could carry it all.

“In a private jet.” Dahlia smirked.

“Hey, we offered to bring you two with us.” Gabe swung the bags into the back of the SUV.

“Some of us had to work.” I hustled into the front seat. Since Gabe had the keys, I assumed he’d drive. Dahlia and Enzo could share the back.

“Shanna, do you mind if I sit up front? I get car sick.” Dahlia smiled a smile that told me she suffered from motion sickness about as often as I suffered claustrophobia.

Enzo chuckled. “Best to let her ride shotgun. Gabe’s had enough vomit from Maggie to last two lifetimes.”

“Is she okay? Will she be able to get through the wedding?” I relinquished my seat and climbed in the back.

“It’s mostly in the morning now. She should be fine.” Gabe pulled out of the parking lot.

The roads back home were bad, but they had nothing on the bumpy, narrow streets of Comiso. I rested my head against the seat as the shadowed scenery passed outside the window.

“Where’s Leo?” Dahlia might have tried for casual, but I detected a hint of worry in her voice.

“He had some business in Palermo. He’s coming in later tonight.” Gabe tightened his grip on the wheel.

She sighed. “What’s the plan for the rest of the evening?”

“Ma’s making dinner at the villa. We figured you two would be hungry and ready for bed.” Gabe turned onto a winding gravel road.

“Sounds good to me.” I caught his eye in the rearview mirror and smiled. “Nervous about the wedding?”

“Hell, no.”

Enzo leaned closer than was necessary. “If he had his way, they’d already be married.”

My pulse raced, but I ignored it, and him—or tried to, anyway. Pretending I couldn’t smell his spicy cologne, or feel the warmth of his leg pressed against mine, proved impossible. However, I would not, and could not, allow myself to be the kind of woman who put up with a guy ghosting her because he happened to be sexy as homemade sin.

The car bounced hard enough to break an axel, and Enzo took the opportunity to slip his arm around my shoulder.

We hit another bump, and I jabbed my elbow into his ribs.

Dahlia laughed. “How many people are staying at your parents’ house?”

“Just the wedding party. Everyone else is in hotels.” Gabe stopped before an iron gate and entered a code into the keypad.

Lights illuminated the white-washed walls of Villa Dei Fiori, otherwise known as the Marchionni compound. Even in the dark, I understood how the house got its name—villa of flowers. Bougainvillea covered the walls, and plumbago filled large beds along the drive. A handful of palms glowed in the exterior lighting, giving the home a tropical feel.

Two Italian men stepped out of the front doors. I’d met all the brothers back in New Orleans, but couldn’t remember which was Marco and which was Dante.

Unfortunately, the Marchionni I wanted to forget cornered me beside the trunk.

Enzo leaned close enough his soft curls brushed my cheek. “Shanna, we need to talk.”

Oh boy, here comes the sorry-I-didn’t-call speech. I yanked my suitcase out and set it on the ground. “Sure, but we’re fine. I mean, we’re adults. There’s nothing—”

“Enzo!” The willowy Italian goddess from the restaurant rushed to him and planted a kiss on his mouth. “You were gone for so long.”

Just when I thought things couldn’t be more awkward.I scooted past the couple and grabbed my remaining bag.

Prying her off him, Enzo stared at me like a man on the verge of drowning.

I turned and walked toward the house.

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