My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon - Lauren Landish Page 0,23

and I can see that Lorenzo’s still processing all the rushed English. Taking a deep breath, I pull on my big girl pants and continue. “I’m sorry. I don’t expect you to keep this lie up. I totally blindsided you. I can tell Emily it was a joke or something.”

Yeah . . . and watch that bitch gloat for the next twenty years.

My heart seems frozen for a long moment as Lorenzo looks at me, and I can almost hear him telling me ‘no’ before walking off, probably calling me all sorts of crazy in Italian. But then he smiles, his lips tilting up on the left side of his mouth like he’s getting the biggest kick out of whatever this weird thing might be. “So . . . she’s the Inter to your AC Milano?”

“Uhh . . . maybe?” I reply, not knowing what the hell he’s talking about.

Lorenzo’s smile broadens, and he takes my hand. “Then just for you, mia rosa, I’ll play along. And I can already see I’ll need to teach you about futbol if we’re going to make this believable.”

I’m so relieved that an entirely graceless laugh barks out. Without thinking, I throw my arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. “Holy shit, are you serious? I owe you big time!”

Lorenzo’s hands come to my hips, and he pulls his face back, his eyes twinkling. I’m reminded of the slow dances at Courtney’s wedding when I thought there might be something brewing between us as our bodies pressed together.

“Is that so?” Those words, in that accent, have me thinking all sorts of naughty things, wiping away the memory of him walking out of the wedding and replacing it with what he’s willing to do now to help me save face in front of Emily.

Heat flushes me, even if he probably doesn’t mean what I’m thinking, but if he wants me to ‘thank him’ on my hands and knees, I’m sure this hotel has some soft towels for cushions.

Trying to regain my balance and give my mind some oxygen to get my body under control, I step back, swallowing and trying to think about anything other than how those sensuous lips would feel against mine. “So, uh . . . other than saving my ass, what are you doing here, anyway?”

“Got a job offer,” Lorenzo says easily with a dismissive shrug. “Just a short term gig, but I’m cooking here at the hotel.”

“Really?” I ask, surprised. “I didn’t know . . . I mean, Violet didn’t say anything.”

Lorenzo smirks and asks naughtily, “Was I supposed to tell her?”

I see his point. Violet’s not his keeper, but it seems like something she’d want to know so she could worry about his wellbeing while he’s halfway around the world and she can’t do anything about it. That’s just how Violet is, especially now that her maternal instincts have kicked in after having Carly.

I blanch, the realization of what I’ve done hitting me. “How did this happen?”

“Right place, right time, I guess. Lucky for us both.”

What are the odds? And how is this lucky for him? Playing husband to a crazy woman to impress a bitchy one?

Before I can even respond, Janey comes up. “Hey, you get the room? I found the beach lounger where I’ll be sitting every time we get a few minutes.” She suddenly zeroes in on how close I’m standing to Lorenzo and his hand possessively placed on my lower back. “And hello to you too. Are you one of the resort’s amenities? Because I’ve got a spot that could really use a massage.” Her brows lift and lower quickly. She’s kidding. I think.

“Janey, this is Lorenzo. We have a bit of a situation that he’s going to be helping me with. We can discuss it more in private.” She wants to ask more. I can see it in her eyes, can see the questions dancing on her tongue, but then she looks past me and pales.

“Oh, shit! Incoming, four o’clock. That’s my cue. Catch you in the room,” she hisses. With that, she snatches a key card out of my hand and disappears down the hallway right as a racket fills the lobby. It sounds like there’s a hockey fight going on behind me.

But when I turn to look at my four o’clock, I find it’s not an impromptu ice rink battle but Claire and Cole coming in along with their entire entourage. A photographer is walking backward in front of them, snapping away