Total pages in book: 79
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75397 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 377(@200wpm)___ 302(@250wpm)___ 251(@300wpm)
“Wow.” I lift my brows. “Guess they were listening, huh?”
He chuckles. “That or they knew they’d have to deal with her wrath once she got up there. My mother was no joke. Five foot two and could be terrifying as hell. But no one loved me more than she did.”
“What was your dad like?”
“Quiet,” he says. “Only really spoke when he felt he had something to say. In a lot of ways, he and my mother cancelled each other out that way. Or complemented each other. However you want to look at it. Worked at the same appliance factory for thirty-five years. Played racquetball when he could. Loved the Cubs. Other than that, he was a simple man.”
“Huh,” I say.
“What?”
“What’d he think of your anything-but-simple lifestyle?” I ask.
“He hated coming to Malibu. Hated the traffic. And all the people. I usually came home to visit. It was less stressful for him,” I say. “But my mother loved to come out. I’d put her up in a five-star hotel in Beverly Hills and she’d spend the weekend getting pampered before packing up and heading to my place to spend a week at the beach. It was her favorite thing in the world. And my staff always got a kick out of her because we could never predict what was going to come out of her mouth.”
“Sounds like my dad,” I say. “And Carina. They’re wildcards.”
Fabian hums. “Yeah. She was definitely a wildcard.”
“Which means you’re half wildcard,” I say.
He chuffs. “Yeah. Guess I am.”
“Though that would mean you’re also half simple man.” I lean against the island, examining him. “Which I don’t really see …”
“What about your parents? What are they like?”
“My dad is full-blooded Italian and he does this thing with his hands when he gets all worked up.” I toss my hand up, demonstrating. “And my mother’s name is Suzette, but everyone calls her Suze. She’s the quintessential midwestern stay-at-home mom. Volunteers around town, heads up a local book club, makes a melt-in-your-mouth cowboy casserole, and has an unhealthy addiction to Lifetime movies.”
“Who doesn’t?” Fabian teases.
“They adore Lucia though, to the point of being obsessed sometimes,” I say. “She’s their whole world. They’re already planning her first trip to Disney World, and Mom won’t stop knitting blankets for her. At some point, I’m going to run out of closet space. Anyway, she’s their only grandkid and probably always will be, so I don’t think there’s any way to talk them out of spoiling her.”
“No bambinos in Carina’s future?”
I let out a belly cackle, one that hopefully won’t wake the baby. “Never. She loves Lucia, but she has no desire to be a mom. She has her dog and her plants and an extremely robust dating life, and that’s all she needs. Granted, she’s twenty-nine, so things could change. But it’d be the shock of a century if she flipped that script.”
“How’d the two of you turn out so different?”
“How’d you and your sister turn out so different?” I lift a shoulder. “I could deliver an oral thesis on nature versus nurture, but it’s a quarter past four and I can barely keep my eyes open and the sun’s going to be up in a couple of hours, so …”
He checks the clock on the microwave. “Shit.”
Yawning, I cover my mouth so he can’t see the Oreo bits stuck in my teeth, bits that officially taste like shame and chemicals. “You sure you don’t want my bed?”
“Positive.”
I switch the kitchen light off and head for the hallway and Fabian follows.
We stop when we get to the end of the hall. Our doors line up perfectly, one across from the other. And in this still, small, quiet moment when exhaustion gnaws at my bones and whiskey flows through my blood, I know I should be climbing under my covers and chasing sleep like my life depends on it.
But I’m stuck here, my body refusing to move, as if it doesn’t want this moment to be over yet.
While it’s been a mere twelve hours since Fabian showed up at my door with his suitcase, I’m already enjoying his company more than I thought I would. He’s remarkably easy to talk to. My ex and I never stayed up late talking about anything and everything. And I always felt like I had to impress him with every word that came out of my mouth because he was witty and cuttingly sharp and charismatic.
That pressure, for whatever reason, isn’t there when I’m with Fabian.
“Thanks for your neighbor’s whiskey,” he says, eyes searching mine in the dark.
“Thanks for ruining my love of Oreos.”
His lips draw up at the corners, painting his face in a lighthearted grin that makes my stomach flip.
“Goodnight, Rossi,” he says, gripping his doorknob with his perfect, chiseled, million-dollar hand.
“Goodnight, Fabian.”
Disappearing into my room, I all but float to my bed.