Page 65 of Icing Hearts

A few minutes later, Tory sets me up on the couch with a plate of appetizers, and I’m happy I didn’t have to wade through everyone to do it myself. We chitchat with a few of the kids about school until someone lays on their car horn from the driveway.

“That’s Giules. Be right back.” Tory hops up from his seat and bounds out the front door. He returns with his niece in one arm and a re-usable grocery bag—filled to the brim—in the other. His older sister, Giulia, follows him with two more bags and kicks the door shut with her thigh-high, heeled boot. Marcia calls those “do-me” boots. She’s wearing a bright red, short sweater dress, and her makeup is immaculate.

Giulia drops her bags and rushes over to sit next to me.

“Hello,” she says, long and slow with a smile that rivals the Grinch.

I shoot Tory a look as he scoops up the bags and heads toward the kitchen. He gives me a nod and mouths the words, “She’s fine,” which sets me at ease.

“Hi, I’m Clara.”

“I know. I’m so excited you’re here.”

“Happy to be here.”

She smiles at me creepily for a few torturous seconds before Tory returns and boots her from his spot.

“Stop being weird,” he tells her.

“I’m just happy you invited her, Vic. Clara, this is my daughter Rainey…” Her voice trails off as she looks around the room. “Where is she? Rainey, come over here. Get your finger out of your nose.” Giulia scoops up Rainey and balances the toddler on her hip.

I wave at the little girl who is a spitting image of Giulia and Mrs. Amato. She nuzzles her face into Giulia’s shoulder shyly before being released to play with the other kids in the rec room downstairs.

We join the kids a short while later. The rec room is a haven. Pinball, basketball, air hockey, ping-pong table, virtual bowling—you name it, they’ve got it. “Why don’t you let people down here during your parties?”

“I don’t want anyone breaking my toys.” Tory sidles up next to me as I run my fingers across a Star Wars themed pinball machine, studying the various details before I start it up. He hooks a finger into one of my belt loops, and I feel his hooded gaze drift down my neck. His smoky, velvet voice tells me, “I’m very protective of what’s mine.”

Oh, gosh. He’s trying to kill me. My pulse races, but I ignore his double entendre and start the game. We play a couple games against each other and then I watch Tory play knee hockey with a few of the kids. They use mini hockey sticks and mini goals, and I giggle at how hard he tries. There’s no middle ground with Tory. Not on anything. Which is why I wonder why he offered to be my friend and nothing more. It’s not his style.

During dinner, we sit at the kids’ table. The older kids help the younger ones get servings of all the various side dishes and turkey. Tory gets Rainey’s plate situated while I manage my side of the table.

When Tory sees my sparse plate, he blurts out something about side dishes and disappears into the kitchen.

“I couldn’t get everything without dairy, like the mac and cheese, obviously, but this is still a good assortment.”

He places half a dozen small containers of hot food in a semi-circle around my plate. “You were able to get all this without dairy?” I ask, eyeing the mashed potatoes and some sort of wild mushroom veggie medley.

“Yeah, after I invited you last week, I called the catering company and had them make some stuff without dairy, in case you came.”

I clear my throat, working hard to draw out the words that desperately want to remain stuck inside. “Thank you. That was…really kind of you.” A warm smile overtakes me, and I give his knee a squeeze under the table before digging in.

“No thanks needed. It would be kinda witless to invite you over to eat and not actually feed you food you can eat.” He shrugs, slicing off a piece of turkey with gravy.

Vince always forgets.

Before I can argue, Mrs. Amato sets a bowl on the table full of steaming, freshly-baked bread. “Everyone, don’t forget to try Vic’s sourdough .”

“Tory made this? Did you two make it together?” I ask.

“Oh, no,” she chirps. “I can’t cook or bake to save my life. The men do, though. Victory still uses the starter he got from my late mother-in-law. My boy is so sentimental.”

“Geez, Mom.”

“What?” She gives his shoulder a loving pinch before striding off to set a similar bowl on the adult table.

“You make sourdough?” I nudge his forearm with mine.

He shrugs. “Maybe.”

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