Page 34 of When Love Gives You Lemons
I cross-reference. Because Ricky and me are man of honorand best man, respectively, we’re scheduled to do a lot of the same activities. Which would be the perfect opportunity to get him to fall back in love with me, except Cam is scheduled for all the same activities, too.
Matty hands me the stack of tickets and euros, and I sift through them like Pokémon cards: lemon farm tour, yacht excursion, a bunch of vouchers for meals, snacks, and drinks at local vendors and restaurants between Amalfi and Positano that Topher and Sienna prepaid. I’m getting the idea that most of the places around here are more old school than back home in the States, which could actually work in my favor.
What if something were to happen tosomethingon Cam’s itinerary?
“Fielder, no,” Matty says with a wily grin.
“I can’t, right?”
“Nobody would know,” Matty argues.
“Dude, you’re supposed to talk me out of this.”
“Who said that?” Matty scratches the top of his head. “I won’t say anything. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” He turns his back toward me, but, with his elbow, pushes the glittery box toward me.
Leaving mine undone in a pile to the side, I rummage through until I find Cam’s.
Unraveling Cam’s scroll, I fumble with the stack of Cam’s tickets and euros, trying to decide what to do. My heart beats so loud and fast it drowns out every other noise in the villa, and I barely register Matty telling me someone is coming.
I grab the ticket to the lemon grove tour because quite frankly that sounds the most romantic, and Ricky is more a farm guythan a boat guy. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Cam’s ticket just so happens to be lost, right?
“Field, hurry,” Matty whispers frantically as I shove Cam’s stolen ticket into my pants and quickly roll everything else back up into the correct order, tie up the rose-gold ribbon, and get it back in the box.
A woman in a chef’s coat with jet-black hair tied back into a tight bun slides beside me. “Che cosa?! Scusi, the others are in the main dining room.” Her accent is thick, on the edge of business and pleasure. Her expression is stony, her glance making my back straighten. With one swift word, she could probably have me executed on the spot.
“Hi, sorry—” I take my scroll and quickly place it back into the box. “I’m—”
“Fielder!” Bianca, Ricky’s mom, shouts from behind the chef. “Chef Vittoria, these boys are Topher’s cousins, Fielder and Matty.”
Matty cheeses hard, which usually works on anyone of any gender. But for Chef Vittoria, no dice. She’s glaring. Hard.
I don’t know if it’s from the gentle crime I just committed, the ticket burning a hole in my pocket, or seeing Ricky’s mom properly for the first time in over a year, but my nerves are shot and it takes all of me not to cry.
Bianca maneuvers past Chef Vittoria with ease, gives Matty a quick hug, then turns toward me, her eyes wet. “Fielder.” She nods, acknowledging everything that can’t possibly be said. “We’ve missed you, son.”
I want to tell her I’ve missed her too, and I even open my mouth to say the words, but nothing squeaks out. It’s like I’ve lost the power of speech.
She pulls me into a hug. “I know, but we’re so happy you’re here.”
I nod because I can’t say anything else. I close my eyes and allow myself to give in to the hug because it feels like Ricky is hugging me.
Don’t cry, damnit.
When she pulls back, a little mascara is trickling down her cheeks. “I just did my makeup.” She lets out a boisterous laugh that fills the room. “So much for waterproof.”
“Is all bad,” Chef Vittoria chimes in before tossing Bianca a makeup bag. “In my line of work, you find the good stuff.”
Matty and I follow them back into the kitchen, and I’m hit with the incredible smells wafting from the oven and stovetop.
“So tell me,” Bianca says as she tends to her face. “What have you been up to? Your mom told me you’ve been making some really good money from Clock.”
She did?I clear my throat. “I’m a food blogger with over a million followers. And I’m verified.” As if this matters to her. “I like to think I have a good palate. I love food. I’m a foodie!”Cringe.“Only thing I’m good at, is critiquing food.” Ineedto stop rambling. I nod toward the massive, covered pot on the stovetop. “Zuppa di pesce?”
“Zuppa di moscardini.” Chef Vittoria grabs the lid, and my cheeks heat in embarrassment.
Matty starts filming, though I’m not sure that’s a good move.
Bianca looks on, intrigued.
