by Elley Arden
But she wasn’t.
She nodded and shuffled past him to the bathroom. He wondered if she was going in to get away—like him. But if losing Pops taught him anything, it was that cancer left nowhere to hide.
“Tony, you need to be out here for this.” Ma poked her head into the hallway and flagged him back into the dining room.
Aunt Josie was speed talking in a whisper when he walked into the room. “How do you know she can fly?”
“I’ll check with the doctor,” Aunt Carmella said.
“I think it’s a wonderful idea,” Ma added.
“Aunt Carmella and Uncle Gene have offered to take Nonna back to Lucca for a couple weeks,” Angie explained in Tony’s ear. “And when she gets back from Italy, Aunt Jo and Uncle Mike are going to surprise her by flying her brother in from California. Sort of like a surprise bucket list.”
Tony nodded. A lot could happen during ten minutes holed up in a bathroom.
“I’m going to become Catholic,” Ma announced. Her sisters-in-law gasped.
Angie flashed a look at Tony. Even Dad’s illness hadn’t prompted a gesture like that. But in the years after his death, Ma and Nonna had grown close, close enough that Ma declared her the mother she’d never had. And now this? Talk about grand gestures.
Tony watched as Angie wrapped her arms around their mother’s neck and squeezed. “I want to do something, too,” Angie said. “I’ll have to think about it though. Tony, what about you?”
If the burn from the air hitting his wide eyes was any indication, he looked like a deer in headlights. His family stared back at him.
“Take your time, Tony. Something will come to you.”
But all around him, they didn’t look convinced.
Nonna shuffled into the kitchen. “Mangia. Mangia.” She pointed at the table full of food.
With the conversation stalled, everyone took their seats and ate—everyone except for Tony. He stared at his pasta, in between glances at Nonna. His family was united in giving her months—hopefully years—to remember. They expected him to join in. He’d ignored their expectations without a care before, but this time was different.
Something will come to you.
Nonna slurped a noodle into her mouth and offered him a small smile. She wanted him to join the priesthood or fall in love.
Anyway Tony looked at it, he was screwed.
CHAPTER TWO
Trish squeezed a Murano vase between her forearm and bicep while she carried a trash bag stuffed with throw pillows. Using her free hand, she punched a code into the lock box hanging from the Jorgen’s front door, and removed the key to the monstrous French provincial home. Once inside, she dropped the bag of pillows on the Carrera marble floor and admired the glossy white woodwork and matte gray walls. The design was crisp, clean, and sterile, which was exactly what Johann wanted. However, the colorful vase in the crook of her arm and the whimsical chandelier hovering above the entryway were bright, fun, and creative, which was exactly what Amanda wanted. To an interior designer, few things were as satisfying as fusing opposite tastes into one harmonious space.
Kicking her heels aside, Trish walked barefoot over the ice-cold tile. The Jorgens had asked for a runner, but she talked them into leaving the gleaming tile bare. After all, children racing down the stairs and weaving into the living room and out through the dining room could trip on a rug’s edges. Not to mention how much easier it would be to power a riding toy along a smooth, stone surface. She smiled, because even better than fusing opposites was creating a beautiful home that wouldn’t crumble under the blessed bedlam of babies.
Setting the vase on a Grecian-style sofa table and family heirloom the couple received as a wedding present, Trish admired the living room, which was anchored by a Chippendale sofa that had been expertly reupholstered by Tony. She ran her fingertips over the black-and-silver jacquard print and visualized the complementing wingchairs. She’d done good. She always did good when it came to decorating houses. If the rest of her life could be so simple…
Trish wandered to the high-gloss white bookshelves that sandwiched floor-to-ceiling windows, and adjusted Johann and Amanda’s family photos. She tried to concentrate on the gilded frames instead of the sentimental scenes, but Amanda’s pregnancy portrait caught her eye. Ethereal and joyful, the black-and-white photo made Trish’s stomach cramp until, with a tiny growl, she banished the longing and turned her back on the photos. She marched through the living room and into the hallway, determined to reach the pillows and keep her mind focused on work. Self-pity was not acceptable while standing in a home she had decorated from million-dollar top to million-dollar bottom.
Two steps from the plastic bag, her phone vibrated against her hip. She freed the white rectangle from her tunic and grimaced at the caller ID. Her mother. And Trish knew exactly why she was calling.
“I haven’t talked to Jackson,” Trish said without offering a hello.
“Darling, what are you waiting for? I cannot bear for you to call Aunt Clarise and decline your ‘plus one’ simply because you’ve tossed another eligible man aside. How embarrassing. Call him. Beg him to escort you. It’s the only way.”
Trish turned her head to muffle a groan. “Begging a man to be my escort is embarrassing, too.”
“Pick your poison, dear. It’s either show up alone after RSVP’ing for two, or swallow your pride and grovel to Jackson. Who knows, you might have such a lovely evening he’ll ask you out again. Wouldn’t that be wonderful?”
“I don’t want him to ask me out again. We weren’t compatible.”
“Nonsense. He’s successful. You’re successful. He’s handsome. You’re beautiful. Your father likes him. He likes your father. What more could you want?”
Trish’s stomach cramped again. “Mother, I have to go. I’m at Amanda’s house, waiting on a delivery, and then I have to be at Meyer’s.”
“Fine. But, darling, call him…before it’s too late.”
Silence echoed through the empty house as Trish stood frozen in the foyer. She didn’t want to ask Jackson for anything, but she didn’t want to show up to this wedding alone, opening herself up to questions about her relationship status and the pity that went along with being over thirty and single. What to do?
She walked then, returning the phone to her pocket. Maybe she would go alone. It wasn’t like she deserved anyone’s pity.
Her mother was right about one thing—Trish was successful. She was independent and thriving really. If it weren’t for the popcorn popper of genetic unrest going off in her chest, life would be perfect. She snatched the bag of pillows and wondered again if she shouldn’t try to find her biological parents in hopes of calming her restlessness.
A rumble followed by two clangs attracted her attention, and Trish pushed aside sheer curtains for a look outside before opening the front door. A white delivery truck emblazoned with the turquoise-and-black emblem of Trish DeVign Interior Design backed into the governor’s driveway, stopping several feet from the front of her car. She stepped onto the stoop as Angie hopped down from the passenger seat.
“Delivery,” Angie said, stomping her jeans down her legs and then adjusting the cuffs over the tops of her work boots.
Trish appreciated the juxtaposition of traits that made up her best friend. There wasn’t a man in the business as skilled with a circular saw and wood as Angie Corcarelli, but when the girl shed the jeans and boots and slipped into something sleek, she was a knockout. The problem was Angie would just as soon knock out a suitor than flirt with him.
“Hey there,” Trish called, stifling a laugh.
“Hey. You look happy despite two huge project deadlines. What gives? Wait. Don’t tell me you’re going out with Jackson again.” Angie wrinkled her nose and shook her head. “Seriously. Don’t tell me that. He was a stiff.”
“I’m not going out with Jackson again.”
“Are you telling me that ’cause I told you to tell me that or are you serious?” She ripped a ru
bber band off her wrist and stretched her arms behind her head to make a ponytail out of her ebony hair.
“I’m serious.” Trish heard the cargo door roll up, and she walked toward the back of the truck, eager for a glimpse at the goods.
“Then why were you smiling?”
“No real reason. I’d been talking to my mother, which so did not make me smile and…”
Tony jumped off the tailgate.
Gone was the $800 suit, and in its place was his “uniform” of black T-shirt and threadbare jeans, both of which clung to his well-sculptured body like frosting to cake. Yum.
“Hey, Boss Lady. I got something for ya.” He grinned. “Where do ya want it?”
A million indecent answers jockeyed for space in Trish’s head.
“Where do you think she wants two wingchairs, jackass?” Angie jumped onto the tailgate and released the ramp lock. “Move so we can get this done. I have better things to do than play delivery girl.”
Tony shook his head. “You’re lucky years of abuse from you Corcarelli women have worn me down. I take orders so well I don’t even argue.” Rather than walk up the ramp, he pressed his palms to the tailgate and with a flex of his glorious forearms and biceps, lifted himself into the truck.
Trish held in a whimper and distracted herself with Angie and Tony’s bickering. She’d known them long enough to know it was all in fun. Sure, they grated on each other’s nerves, but when it came down to it, they loved each other, because they were made of the same parts. She suspected love like that felt different than any love she’d ever known.
“Watch your step, Ange. Slow and easy,” Tony called.
As they maneuvered down the ramp, Trish tried to focus on the black plastic covering the furniture, hoping for a peek at what was underneath. But as Tony passed, she noticed what was underneath his shirt sleeve instead.
Tattooed Italian words circled his lean, chiseled bicep. Each letter rode the swell of muscles as he hoisted the chair. She wondered what the words meant, and she stared harder, trying to pronounce them in her head, only to find herself wondering what it would feel like to have those muscles contracting beneath her hand.
“The door,” Angie yelled.
Crap. “Yep.” Trish scrambled ahead of them to open the front door.
Angie brushed by first. Then Tony, and as he did, he looked at Trish and smiled. “You’re gonna like what you see.”
Trish watched him walk down the hall, his blue jeans slinging low across his hips. Yeah, she liked what she saw—a lot more than she should. Talk about a waste of time. The man was nowhere near father material. If she wanted to have fun and forget about her little lists and ticking biological clock, then Tony was her man, but…
“Are you waiting for a big reveal?” Angie called from the other room. “Get in here.”
Trish blinked, realizing she was still standing in the foyer, door open wide along with her mouth. “I’m coming,” she said, rushing down the hall, shaking her head.
She’d always been hyper-focused on her goals and single-minded when it came to achieving them, but this recent uptick in time spent dwelling on children was taking its toll. She didn’t need to be worried about babies and baby daddies. She needed to be worried about finishing the Jorgen’s home before they returned from Sweden, and finding a replacement date for her cousin’s wedding. She could be happy without a baby. She was happy without a baby.
Get a grip, she thought as she turned the corner and walked into the living room. But any chance of that evaporated when she saw Tony sitting cross-legged in the wingchair.
“So?” He grinned, propping his elbows on the shimmering, striped fabric, showing off the large star and vines tattooed on the underside of his forearm. “You like?”
God, she smiled, because there was something about the man that made her giddy. Aside from the beautiful face and delicious body, there was this aura that drew her in and wrapped her up in a blanket of happiness she wished she could take with her wherever she went.
The chair was nice, too.
“Hurry up. Let’s get the other one.” Angie clomped out of the room.
Tony stood, still smiling, and turned to the chair. “Personally, I think it’s some of my best work.”
“Me too.” Trish stood beside him, breathing in warm air with a hint of woodsy cologne. She imagined sweat from the labor diluted the scent, and she wondered what he smelled like the night of Nonna’s party, when he was impeccably dressed. She snapped her head to look at him, imagining him in that suit again. “Would you…?” But her mouth slammed shut before the rest of the stupid idea escaped.
“Would I what?” One eyebrow raised in her direction.
Now she’d done it. The scattered matter she called a brain had finally made a fatal mistake. Taking Tony Corcarelli—no matter how good he looked in a suit—to her cousin’s wedding was not a practical idea. And yet, as he stood there, smiling down at her with a gleam of mischief in his eye, she couldn’t help but think he was just what she needed, a break from this exhausting pursuit of pregnancy. She deserved that once in a while. Didn’t she?
“Holy hell!” Angie’s voice echoed through the house. “A little help out here.”
Trish shook away the heady thoughts and turned, walking toward the door. “Never mind, let’s help her before she blows. I can’t have her blowing. We have twenty eight-panel doors to hang over at Meyer’s.”
* * *
Tony followed Trish into the hallway, watching her dirty blonde hair swoosh between her shoulder blades. The minute his brain registered the dirty in blonde, his gaze dropped to her ass, swinging against the fabric of her mid-thigh sweater. Her uptight posture and coordinated clothing made him smile, because over the last two years he’d learned he had a knack for flustering her. If she were anyone other than his sister’s best friend and the woman who contracted his upholstery work, he’d have flustered her good and hard a long time ago.
“Tony, you’re screwing with my schedule.” Angie stood on the tailgate, one hand on her hip, the other hand wrapped around her phone. “And now you’re going to have to wait fifty-three seconds.”
“For what?”
“Sh.” Angie raised the phone to her face. “No way. Mother f…” Her fingers flew across the screen. “Come on. Come on. Come on.” She tapped her foot so hard against the bottom of the truck, the metal rattled. “Nope.” Her fingers raced again. “Ha! Yes. Yes. Yes! Ten, nine, eight. Crap.” Again with the typing until finally, with a fist pump, she leaped off the tailgate and landed in the driveway. “I won!”
“What?” Trish asked.
“You’re looking at the proud owner of a 1948 Cadillac convertible.”
“Sweet.” If there was one thing Tony and Angie agreed upon, it was the value of a sick set of wheels.
“I’m glad you think so, because you’re going to need to help with the upholstery. This one is red and according to the picture Mom gave me, we need white.” She walked back up the ramp and into the truck.
Tony followed. “Why do we need white? It’s your car.”
Angie bent over at the waist and hooked her hand beneath the chair. “Let’s go. Lift. Nonna and Nonno had their first date in a black Caddy convertible, but with white upholstery. This is my contribution to her wish list.”
Damn. Tony lifted the chair into his arms and walked backward down the ramp, all the while thinking he was once again the slacker of the bunch. “I can help with the seats.”
“Good.” Angie smiled. “She’s going to flip.”
“I can’t believe you guys are doing this. How cool.” Trish held open the front door.
Tony tossed her a thank you with a nod of his head. The wish list was cool, and he wanted to be a part of the coolness, but how cool was it if his only contribution was being the upholstery boy to Angie’s big idea?
Nobody appreciated the upholstery boy.
“Tony, this stuff is unbelievable. You are a rock star.” Trish was standing next to the first
wingchair, having bypassed Tony and Angie to enter the living room through the dining room instead of the hall. She stood there beaming at the chair, and then at him like he’d hung the moon.
Okay, so nobody appreciated the upholstery boy except Trish DeVign. He could do a lot worse. Still, that wasn’t going to impress Nonna.
“Done.” Angie swiped her hands as she walked toward the hall. “I’ll be in the truck, Tone. Give me a few minutes so I can call this guy about paying for the car and getting it delivered.”
“Thank you,” Trish called. “I’ll see you at Meyer’s.”
Tony turned back to the chairs and Trish, who had removed the plastic covering and settled onto the cushion, crossing her long legs and bouncing one barefoot with red-painted toes in his direction. As she sat, she rubbed her palms over the arms of the chair and breathed deeply enough that he risked hypnosis by the rise and fall of her breasts. Not the sort of thing he wanted to notice about a woman he couldn’t pursue.
“You really do great work.”
He smiled and stepped closer, because he was a gentleman who’d just been complimented. “Thank you.” He squatted and ran his hand along the nailhead trim, grazing her covered calf muscle, because he was a guy who liked the way her face flushed whenever he stood too close. “I’m glad you like it. When you’re in need of my skills again, you know where to find me.” And then he stood, taking two steps back toward the hall, because even a screw-up like him knew where to draw the line.
She sat ramrod straight, gripping the arms of the chair. “Tony, I need a favor.”
He stopped. “What’s up?”
“I need a…guest for my cousin’s wedding on Saturday. Would you happen to be interested?”
“I take it the good doctor wasn’t so good.”
A nervous chuckle escaped her lips. “Not good at all. And I RSVP’d for two with the hope that he’d still be around, and now my mother is driving me crazy, saying I can’t embarrass myself and her by cancelling this late in the game. I’m stuck.”
It was Tony’s turn to chuckle. “So you want me to unstick you?”