Page 115 of Things We Fake
Paul snorted, slicing into a golden brown roll. “History has shown that you are.”
Mom accepted the compliment with a graceful tilt of her head. “I had help, obviously. Maria from the vineyard came early this morning to prep the lamb, and Francesca made the pastries. I handled the rest.” She cast a pointed glance around the table. “Not that any of my children offered to help.”
Paul, Michelle, and I all looked at our plates.
“Mom.” I took a sip of my wine. “You hate when people help in the kitchen.”
“That’s not the point,” she said primly. “I still want the opportunity to sayno, thank you.”
Dad chuckled, shaking his head as he passed a plate of pasta to Michelle. “Ah, let the girl be, Elaine. We are all together, no? This is what matters.”
Michelle smiled warmly, rubbing a hand over her huge belly. “Exactly. The food is amazing, Elaine.”
Paul leaned back in his chair, wine glass in hand. He fixed me with an amused smirk. “You’ve been awfully quiet today. No dramatic revelations planned? No bombshell announcements?”
I shot him a dry look. “It’s Easter, Paul. I’m taking a break from being a spectacle.”
“Too bad.” He lifted his glass. “It was great entertainment.”
I kicked him under the table. He grunted but kept the smirk on his face.
Ignoring him, I leaned back in my chair. Everything was good. Peaceful. I didn’t feel the weight of last night pressing down on me. I didn’t feel like a fraud, or like a woman whose entire life had just imploded in front of two families. I just felt… home.
We were halfway through our meal when we heard a sharp knock at the front door.
Paul frowned. “Who the hell—?”
My father, who rarely showed strong emotions unless wine was involved, raised his head. Whoever it was, they had committed a grave mistake. Never interrupt an Italian’s meal.
Another knock came, harder this time, and a voice called out, “Hey, anyone at home?”
I froze. Even after all these years, I recognized that smooth, polishedvoice. Neil.
Chapter Thirty-Four
Sue
My mother’s lips thinned. Paul set down his glass, shoulders stiffening. Michelle, sensing the shift, instinctively placed a protective hand over her belly.
Something heavy and cold settled in my stomach. What the hell was Neil doing here? I knew Mrs. Claven was a blabbermouth, but I didn’t expect word of my presence here to spread quite so quickly.
Paul pushed his chair back and stood, speaking through his teeth. “I’ll get rid of him.”
But before he could move, my father rose and stopped him with a gesture. He exuded pure Morelli patriarch authority as he strode toward the door and yanked it open.
There, on the front porch, smiling like the damn villain that he was, stood Neil Langley.
My fists clenched at my sides, aching with the need to wipe that smile off his face.
Neil had always been polished. He dressed the part of the rich, charming businessman, the Truffle Prince of Warwick. Now he wore a fitted blazer over a crisp whiteshirt, his hair carefully styled, his fake-ass smile perfectly in place.
It faltered a little when my father yanked open the door, murder in his eyes.
“Carlo.” Neil recovered quickly, pasting his smile back on. “Happy Easter.”
My father didn’t return the greeting. He didn’t even blink, just stared at Neil for ten long seconds.
“What do you want?” he said after Neil started to sweat. Dad’s voice was pure steel.
