Page 63 of Bittersweet

“What?” I stare at him, my mouthagape.

“Well, I’ll have to share it with my siblings of course, but I can be pretty persuasive when I wannabe.”

An uneasy feeling slides through my gut. Something tells me Marc always gets what he wants. Like last night, when he fell asleep immediately after he came, without once making sure I was okay, or whether or not I’d even gotten off. A shudder runs through me. Just a few more hours and I will never have to see Marc Morettiagain.

The front door opens, pulling me from my thoughts, and an elderly man in a bow tie and suspenders steps out. He holds his arms wide and Marc tugs me toward him. Once we’re on the porch, he abandons me to hug the man who I assume is his grandfather. Beyond them, more people are coming down the hall. Marc lets go of his grandfather and I’m swept up in a huge hug and kissed all over my face. It’s like being greeted by an over-excitedpuppy.

“All right, Nonno, hands off my woman,” Marc says, steering me away from his grandfather. A pang of guilt hits me in the stomach. Maybe I should have broken up with him last night, left a note. Sent a text. Hired a freaking Mariachiband.

“Ah! It’s true. He has afidanzata?” a woman’s voice calls and I’m spun away from Marc’s nonno and find myself face-to-face with an adorable littlenonna.

Not just anynonna.

Elio’snonna.

My stomach flips and bottoms out as she studies my face and clearly her shrewd mind comes to the same conclusion mine does: I’m here with the wrongman.

This is Elio’s grandmother. The nonna I begged to adopt me. I’ve shared a meal with this woman. She practically shoved her grandson at me and forced him to propose. All of the blood drains from my face as she studies me with a sternexpression.

“Nonna, this is my girl, Romy,” Marcsays.

“Romy,” she says with her thick Italian accent. Her eyes bore into mine, but her tightly knit brows tell me she’s just as confused as I am rightnow.

“H . . . hi,” I saysheepishly.

The woman must decide to take pity on me because she envelopes me in a hug and whispers, “I think you came with the wrongMoretti.”

Yeah, no shit,Nonna.

I give her a weak smile, forcing down the lump in my throat, and blinking back tears that I refuse to shed. I would have been here in a heartbeat with Elio, if only he wasn’tmarried.

Within seconds, I’m ripped away from Nonna’s warm embrace and passed between Marc’s parents. They each greet me as if I were family, kisses on both cheeks, hugs that are so warm, so welcoming. It’s vastly different than the greeting I receive at my own parents’ house, and it makes my eyes burn hotter with unshedtears.

From beyond Marc’s mother down the hall comes another familiar face.I can’t do this. I need to get out of here. I need to be far, far away from Marc and Elio, and his perfect wife. I can’t look her in the eye after what Idid.

And then I find myself face-to-face with her gorgeous smile, and despite the aching in my heart, and the guilt worming its way through my stomach, I can’t help but smile back because she’s just that lovely. No wonder Elio marriedher.

“Hi, you must be Romy. I’m Sophia,” she says, in an accent so glorious and exotic that I wonder how Elio ever could have taken a second look at me. She extends her hand. I look at it, and then up at her beautiful face, afraid she might bite . . .Oh, God. Does sheknow?

“Romy?” The question comes from behind her, and I glance away from Elio’s beautiful wife to see Bianca running toward me. “Oh, santa merda. Did you come here withElio?”

“Pfft.” Marc makes a face. “Why would she come withElio?”

“Why indeed?” Nonna adds, and I want to die. I seriously contemplate throwing myself down themountain.

“What the fuck?” B demands, glaring at Marc. Her brows knit together inagitation.

“Bianca,” all of the older adults chide her at once. Elio’s wife looks confused. Marc does too as his possessive arm wraps around my waist. B’s eyes are narrow and furious as she tracks themovement.

“This is not good.” She stares at me, and then at her . . .brother. Oh God. How could I have missed this glaringly obvious detail? “You’re here withMarco?”

“I-I. . .”

“What the fuck is the matter with you?” Marc snaps. “Of course, she’s here with me. She’s mygirlfriend.”

His girlfriend? I feel sick. I close my eyes, trying my best to ignore the sweat beading on my forehead and the way my head and stomachswim.

“Hey, cuz,” Marc says to Sophia, and that’s when I lose it—my grip onreality.

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