Page 61 of His Fantasy Bride (Things To Do Before You Die)

“I take it you don’t,” Luca said. “Your grandfather was probably too ashamed to tell you.”

“So you tell me.”

“He stole my grandfather’s betrothed. And not satisfied with that, he made sure he had to leave the country so his wife wouldn’t be reminded she’d once loved another man.”

“Really?” He liked the idea. It was sort of romantic. He hadn’t known his grandmother; she had died of some sort of complications in childbirth before he was even born. He’d never considered his grandfather a romantic, but he’d also never married again.

“Maybe we should fight for her.”

His brain was going fuzzy with the scotch. “My grandmother? She’s dead.”

“No. Gabby.”

“She wouldn’t have you even if you won. Anyway, I don’t fight.”

“You punched me.”

“So I did.”

“Let’s have a few more drinks, and then we’ll decide. Or maybe we could toss a coin. Or go around and ask Gabby to choose.”

“Sounds like a plan. Let’s have another drink first.”

Many drinks later, he didn’t think he would manage to hit Luca even if the other man stood stock still. So it was probably a good thing that he didn’t plan on any more fighting that night. Didn’t plan on anything. Wasn’t sure he was capable of even getting up.

“So, what do you plan on doing about Gabby?” Luca asked.

“Mind your own fucking business.”

Truth was he had no clue.

Who was he punishing? Her or himself?

If he was punishing her, and he couldn’t remember what for now—oh, right, doing what she had to do to save her mother’s life—then why was he the one who hurt so damn much?

“You know she’s moving to New York?”

That got through the blur of scotch fogging his mind. “What?”

“Yup, so you’d better get your act together quick, or she’ll be gone for good.”

…

“I don’t want to play anymore. You cheat,” Gabby grumbled, slamming the cards on the table and picking up her glass. She peered into the bottom. “It’s empty. How the hell did that happen?”

“Easy,” Theresa replied, emptying her own glass. “But also easily solved.” She pushed herself to her feet and shuffled into the kitchen, emerged a minute later flourishing a bottle of wine and a corkscrew. “Medicinal purposes only,” she said.

Gabby stared at the bottle for an age, then at the two empties beside it, and shook her head. The medicine wasn’t working, anyway. All she could think of was that last glimpse of Vito. And it hurt.

At that moment the doorbell rang. “It’s after ten. Who the hell can that be?”

“Ignore it?” Theresa suggested.

Gabby was still trying to decide—her brain really wasn’t functioning that well—when someone called through the letter box.

“Gabby!”

What the hell?

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