My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,128
lip imprint of her own kiss on my ass because she had a giggle fit that lasted for twenty minutes about the very idea. I’d refused, of course, but if it makes her smile every time she sees my ass for the next fifty years, I’ll happily get it permanently inked on my backside.
And it’s only been days since I rushed her at Violet’s. I can’t imagine what adventures fifty years might hold.
Like tonight.
We approach the door, and surprisingly, she rings the bell and doesn’t barge right in. Something about that seems oddly unexpected about both Abigail and her family, based on what I’ve heard from Violet about how close they are. I lift my eyes in question and she explains, “Once, I came home and caught my parents in a rather compromising position. It’s great that they love each other and all, but I do not want to see that again. Ever. So now, even when they know I’m coming, I ring the bell, knock, or go in yelling my arrival so they have time to get dressed.”
“Ah, love!”
She smacks my chest with the back of her hand. “You can say that because it wasn’t your parents.” A shiver works its way down her spine and I grin.
The door opens, and a black-suited, white-haired man stands before us. He’s smaller, frailer, and older than I thought the great Morgan Andrews would be.
“Karl!” Abigail squeals and promptly gathers the man up in her arms for a hug. “It’s been ages!”
Karl? So not Morgan. Who’s Karl?
“You should come home more often then, Miss Abi,” the old guy says.
“I know. Been busy working on my tan, you know how it is,” she jokes to the particularly pale man. She’s done no such thing. She’s been working with Janey and Samantha every day at the flower shop while I scout out restaurants to consider applying at.
“Looking quite Virgin Islands, you are,” he replies dryly.
“I haven’t been a virgin in a long time, Karl,” she tells him with a laugh. “A really, really long time. And we both know that.” He returns the mirth, though it’s with a significantly higher degree of restraint.
I clear my throat.
“Oh! Karl, this is Lorenzo Toscani. Lorenzo, this is Karl. Technically, he’s the house manager. Realistically, he’s the reason we’re all sane. Well, everyone else, anyway. I’m the reason he’s crazy most of the time.” She nudges him with her elbow.
“You’re certainly what makes life interesting, Miss Abi.” His smile is warm and genuine. He offers me a hand. “Good to meet you, Mr. Toscani.”
“You as well, Karl.”
“Come in, come in. Mr. Toscani, if you’ll follow me to Mr. Andrews’s office. Miss Abi, your mother is in the kitchen with the caterer,” Karl says.
Honestly, I’d rather go to the kitchen to hang with the caterer to see what they’re cooking and maybe what I can learn. But after Abigail shoots me a wink for strength, I follow Karl almost happily.
Down this hallway awaits my fate.
Karl knocks twice and then opens the door. “Mr. Morgan, may I present Mr. Toscani?”
“Come in!” a deep voice booms.
Inside the room, I see three men sitting in club chairs by an unlit fireplace. They stand as I enter, and Karl closes the door behind me, leaving the gladiator with the lions.
Kaede, Courtney’s husband, with his dark hair and eyes, was once an interloper who, like me, fell for one of the Andrews women. He gives me a pitying look. Ross, Violet’s husband, seems eager to get this shitshow on the road.
And last but certainly not least, Morgan Andrews.
He’s an older, slightly less athletic version of Ross, a man who has carried the weight of the world on his shoulders and has no intention of shirking that responsibility any time soon.
Morgan is in charge here, and I wait for him to make the first move. “Good to meet you, Lorenzo.” He holds a hand out. Our handshake is firm and solid, not a dick-measuring contest of who can squeeze the hardest. I appreciate that. “Have a seat.” He gestures to a fourth chair.
“Drink?” Ross asks as he leans forward to pick up a crystal decanter.
“Abigail actually warned me to take the offered Glenfiddich. She said the one guy who dared to say no was kicked into the front yard. So, yes, thank you,” I tell Ross.
All three men laugh at my confession.
“Honesty, a rare trait and one I appreciate,” Morgan says as he sips his own scotch. “Tell me more about yourself, Lorenzo.”