Party Foul - Abby Knox Page 0,49

She trailed off, and Levi’s hackles went up.

“What are you talking about, Fi? What photos?”

“Oh. Last time I had a kegger by the pool, someone leaked a bunch of photos from my protected social media account to the newspaper. Rumors have been going around that some guy in the photo is connected to the mafia. But I didn’t give it another thought. Gossipmongers love to make shit up.”

Levi’s stomach tumbled. His fingers clenched the steering wheel as he felt his fortress around her start to crumble. He would do anything to protect her, but Kaylee was right about one thing. Fiona hardly did enough to protect herself.

“Angel, listen to me. That guy is for real. You gotta tell Kaylee not to mess around with the likes of him. It’s not gonna to end pleasantly for her.”

Fiona finally appeased him by promising to talk to Kaylee as soon as possible.

Levi knew she would, but he still felt extremely ill at ease. He eyed the car ahead of him, and the one in the rearview mirror, following him a little too close.

“Like a freakin’ presidential motorcade,” Levi commented, unconsciously squeezing the wheel.

“Oh, you know. Keith’s a good guy. He’s even more paranoid than my parents. He makes me carry an extra burner phone.”

Levi nodded and let it go, but inside, he still didn’t feel right. About Keith, about Kaylee, about Christoph, about the scrutiny of keeping up this fake boyfriend thing—any of it.

He had the feeling all of them were letting him know in a low-key, creepy way, that they were keeping an eye on him until he gave Girardi his answer.

And if he told Fiona about any of it, very bad things would happen to her, and Levi would never let that happen.

Chapter Twenty-One

Levi

* * *

There was only one place in the entire city he could go to where he could hear himself think, where someone else would do the thinking and he always left feeling rested and restored.

YaYa’s house.

Levi noticed as he walked up to her stoop that her walk was covered with ice. So instead of ringing the doorbell, he walked out back to the side toolshed, opened the door and found a giant unopened bag of ice melt.

The side door of the yellow bungalow creaked open behind him.

“Levi! Tomato soup is ready. Get in here, it’s freezing.”

Levi told her he’d be inside as soon as he was done spreading the ice melt on her walk.

“I thought my idiot brother was supposed to do this yesterday,” he said, his voice straining under the weight of bag.

“Which idiot? Patrick, Paul, Timmy, or Brian?”

He turned his face toward YaYa and gave her a knowing look. “All of the above.”

YaYa shook her finger at him and admonished, “You’re going to get me into trouble for playing favorites. Get inside before you catch cold.”

He cocked his head, taking note of the fact that she wasn’t wearing a coat. “You go inside before you catch hypothermia, 85-year-old lady with zero percent body fat.”

She waved him off dismissively as she went back inside, letting the door slap shut behind her.

Inside her warm, tiny kitchen, Levi rubbed his hands together.

“To what do I owe this visit?”

Levi laughed. “YaYa. I see you every day. Remember where I live?”

She squinted up at him as she set a bowl of tomato soup on the table. She always insisted he sit down and eat, though he preferred to snoop snacks out of her fridge and eat over the sink on his frequent visits.

“Yes, but you look troubled. Don’t worry. I already know. Baklava will take care of everything.”

Levi blinked at his diminutive YaYa before speaking. He examined her for evidence of a stroke. Seeing none, he raised a finger in the air. “I love your baking as a rule, but how do you even know what’s troubling me?”

YaYa ignored the question and pointed to her pantry, as if Levi didn’t know where the sugar and honey were.

“Honey and pistachios. Get going.”

Baklava was no small feat, Levi learned over the next two hours he spent in YaYa’s kitchen, while spilling all his guts to her about his feelings for Fiona. By the time he was done talking it all out, he was drained. Both physically and emotionally.

“This is exhausting work, YaYa. How do you do this for every damn stinking fundraiser at Holy Rosary?”

YaYa slapped him on the shoulder. “Watch your mouth.”

“Sorry.”

“And, what, you think I’m going to make it for you? You want to win the girl, you make it