Page 23 of Of Grief And Gratitude

“Fake date him.”

“Yeah, I don’t think so.” The more I thought about it, the worse the idea seemed. “But I need to hash out a strategy with him. I should text him.”

“That’s what she said,” Sloane muttered under her breath.

“Shut up,” I answered, exasperated.

I pulled my phone out and typed out what I hoped was a professional message to Romeo.

We need to talk.

As soon as I hit send, I regretted it. I sounded desperate and clingy.

Chapter Seven

“ Mamma! ” I yelled out as I pushed the door closed behind me. My voice echoed through the large foyer. She’d called and asked me to stop by for lunch, and I wasn’t about to turn down an offer of her home cooking. My mother brought her family’s Italian recipes when she moved to the states to marry my father, so every meal she made connected to our family’s past.

“Amore della mamma!” her voice echoed through the house. “In the kitchen!”

I nodded to my father’s men stationed by the door and found my way to the kitchen, where my mother stood plating stuffed eggplant halves. The aroma of pecorino and garlic filled the kitchen, and I inhaled deeply, letting the familiar scent sweep the stress from my body.

My father’s house was only home so long as my mother made it so. She’d given us all the love she could, even when my father was the source of our anxiety. All of my best memories included her and most involved food in some way.

When we achieved something, she’d be waiting with a smile when we bounded proudly into the kitchen, always offering us susumelle and not scolding us for the crumbs. She’d murmur words of praise and lick her thumb, cleaning smudges of melted chocolate from our faces before peppering our cheeks with kisses. She still did it to this day and didn’t give a fuck that we were grown men.

Even now, my mother wiped her hands on her apron and rushed to me, grabbing my face between her tiny hands and kissing me on each cheek.

“You should come home more often,” she scolded.

I returned her kiss and hugged her before stepping back. “I’m here all the time.”

“Ah.” She waved her hands dismissively. “Family business does not count. You come see me more than just Sunday dinner. Promise me.”

“I promise to come to see you more, Mamma.” Once she’d gotten an idea in her head, there was no use resisting. I’d be at risk of her guilting me for breaking her heart or suffer the wrath of her tea towel snapping like a whip.

“Bravo, ragazzo,” she praised, kissing me again before shoving me toward the table and placing a plate of hot food in front of me.

“Are we waiting for anybody?” I asked. It wasn’t often that a meal was shared between only two people. More often, all my brothers came to eat whenever possible so they didn’t have to cook for themselves.

“No,” Mamma answered simply.

She sat across the table with the other plate, carefully placing her napkin in her lap to protect the navy dress she wore. I cut a generous bite of the eggplant but froze when my mother pinned me with a look and bowed her head. Setting my fork on my plate, I waited for her to say grace and crossed myself before resuming my meal.

“Tell me about your life,” she said as I had my mouth full of food. She always asked that when she was fishing for information, but I couldn’t think what she meant by it today.

“Things at the gym are going well,” I replied cautiously, shoving another bite into my mouth, letting the tomato, basil, and the tang of the pecorino roll across my tongue.

Her eyes gleamed eagerly, setting off warning bells in my mind. “And outside of the gym?”

“I’ve spent time with Riona.”

There wasn’t time to say more because Mamma bounced happily in her seat and clapped her hands. “I saw the news! I knew she was a good girl the moment I met her. I am so glad you found a good woman.”

“What?” I was too stunned to form a cohesive sentence. I suppose I should have realized there was a possibility my mother would catch wind of the rumor the paparazzi had spread about my love life, but I hadn’t expected it this soon. “Riona and I….”

I trailed off, unable to bring myself to destroy my mother’s joy.

“What is this about the Irish girl?”

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