Page 23 of Love to Hate You

“It’s around. It’s been around for twenty years,” Frank said, as if his brother hadn’t had a memory slip—something Wes had noticed within the first few minutes at dinner last night. But instead of arguing with him after he’d told the same story three times, his family had sat patiently listening as if they’d never heard it before. Laughing at all the right times, his wife adding little bits here and there about what a brave, funny, honorable—fill in the blank—man he’d been, guiding him when he lost his way.

Most families would have cut the old man off at the second repetitive story. This family? They were different.

They were present and supportive and protective. Wes had never experienced such a fierce bubble of love. Not that he wasinthe bubble, he was merely an observer, but what he had observed touched him as much as it made him lonely.

There had been a moment though, a brief moment, when Giuseppe had told them about his knockout punch in the Golden Gloves fight when Wes had felt like he was a part of it all. It was the second go-around for this particular tale and Wes had felt an energy radiating from the other side of the table. It was Summer looking his way. Her eyes were shimmering with unshed tears and her expression was one of pleading. Pleading with him to go along with the farce. As if she thought he’d embarrass her uncle to needle her.

And that had made him feel like a bloody wanker. Did she really think he was that vindictive—to use her family as a weapon? Then he thought back to all the pranks he’d pulled on her over the past few months and wondered if her assessment was correct. Maybe what he thought of as healthy competition between rival businesses was hitting her on a personal level.

He’d simply nodded, and then at the next pause in conversation he’d asked Giuseppe a question to keep the story going. The gracious smile she’d sent his way cracked something in his chest that had been hardened over for most of his life.

“But I forget how we untie those sailor knots you secure the boats up with. Could you remind an old man?” Frank said.

Pride lit Giuseppe’s expression and the two men headed toward the shoreline.

Wes would have offered a hand, except he felt as though it was a brother-bonding moment between the two. And he’d never been all that graceful at navigating conversations that went deeper than F.O.R.M.—a skill he’d learned from one of the many business conferences he’d attended.

When meeting a prospective client, you had to ask about Family, Occupation, Recreation, and then bring home the Message. But there was no message here, there was just love. And that left him dumbfounded.

“You’re wrong,” someone said, aghast.

Wes looked toward the edge of the dock, where Aunt Cecilia and Summer’s mom were standing. Hands dug into hips, shoulders squared, they were in a heated battle. Now, this was what he was used to. Maybe they weren’t so perfect after all.

“Yes. A pad of butter makes it smoother,” Aunt Cecilia explained.

Cecilia reminded Wes of one of those psychics at the farmers’ market who sold incense, dreamcatchers, and spiritual guided voyages into your past lives. Her neck was draped with crystals and she had turquoise bracelets going from wrist to forearm that clanked as she waved her hand dramatically, as if trying to cast a spell. She’d tried to read Wes’s hand last night after dinner but, after Randy’s mojo prognosis, he’d offered to help with dishes instead—placing his hands firmly under the water and away from her spying eyes.

“It’s a pinch of sugar that’s the secret ingredient, not butter,” Blanche argued. Juxtaposed with Cecilia, Blanche was dressed like a starlet from a 1960s movie.Mrs. Robinsonto be exact. Slim, regal in stature, in all white linen, with a silk scarf tying her long silver hair back.

“You’re not making ketchup. This is marinara. The heart and soul of Italian culture.”

“I’m not suggesting that we douse it with simple syrup. Just a pinch to cut through the acidity of the tomatoes.”

Wes chuckled, because in this family nuclear war was over whose sauce was better.

“You heard that you can’t have two chefs in the kitchen?” Summer said, coming up beside him. He smelled her before he saw her. Like crisp citrus and a warm summer breeze that wrapped around him and made his dick tighten. “Well, that’s where that phrase originated from.”

A dual ping of AI Cupid’s arrows sounded, but they both ignored it this time.

He looked down at her and his breath nearly caught. She was dressed in a simple pink tank top that hugged her curves, and denim shorts—emphasis onshort—that looked like they’d been jeans in another lifetime. They landed just below her ass cheeks and were frayed at the bottom. Then there were those sexy little cat-eye glasses she always wore, as if contacts were too much of a hassle.

Since the holiday, he’d begun to wonder if her glasses were a barrier between her and the world—like a shield that held people at a distance. Like his expensive suits and ties.

“Is it always like this?” he asked.

She kept her gaze out on the ocean. “I know it can be a lot. But we love as fiercely as we fight.” She looked up at him andpow—those glasses weren’t hiding a thing. Her expression was soft and welcoming and grateful. “I never got to properly thank you for last night and how you handled Uncle Giuseppe. Most people would have let their own uncomfortableness bleed into the conversation.”

“Most people are assholes,” he said, and a bark of laughter burst from her mouth. “Okay, after crashing your holiday and trying to steal your bunk, I guess I deserve that.”

“I didn’t handle it much better.” Her admission felt like a win in another war that was being waged between them. A war he hadn’t known existed until now. “Randy told me that it’s just the two of you. That must be hard.”

“I wasn’t all that close to my dad.”

“And your mom?” she asked, her eyes imploring, and even though he knew she was unconsciously using F.O.R.M., it didn’t feel like an interview. It felt . . . real.

“She passed a few years ago.”

“That must have been hard.”

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