My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,62

because, to them, nincompoop is apparently the utmost in insults when it’s not even close. Not that I can imagine my Nana or Aunt Sofia busting out with some of today’s barbs.

Though that might trigger the silence I need to spill my guts about the bomb about to go off in this house.

Nana and Aunt Sofia start back up again, the battle of tomato versus salt, round one hundred and three, going full-throttle in the small kitchen. Which gives me zero opportunity to say anything. I know I need to, can feel the sand running out in the hourglass, but one more minute of relative peace is so much . . . easier.

Mom looks over at me. “Come on. If we don’t get this done soon, your man’s going to arrive and be sitting around waiting on dinner. That can’t happen!”

“He’s . . . Mom . . .” I try one more time, but she shushes me, literally putting a finger to her mouth.

I hear Ross long before he arrives, my blood turning to ice in my veins.

It’s too soon. I haven’t told them yet! Shit!

This isn’t downtown, where Ross has his penthouse and big noise is normal. This isn’t the Hills, where the Andrews Estate rests separated from their neighbors by huge stretches of land.

This is Oakridge, the planned neighborhood of the city where you can reach out your kitchen window and smack a fly on your neighbor’s wall if you’ve got a fly swatter. It’s a subdivision of wooden privacy fences and prefab swing sets jammed into back yards so tightly that you stop playing on them by the time you’re eight or so.

Not that it’s a bad place. Far from it. The neighbors are nice, and every July Fourth there’s the Oakridge Independence Barbecue, with a dozen grills going, games, and fireworks in the cul-de-sacs, the whole shebang.

But it’s quiet and quaint. Things that Ross’s loud Camaro are decidedly not. Hell, half the neighborhood is probably peeking out their windows to see who this interloper is, because sure as Nana’s lasagna is going to be delicious regardless of any salting issues, Ross is an outsider.

Mom looks to me. “Did Colin get a new car? I thought he had a Mercedes.”

I bite my lip, shaking my head as I plead with her with my eyes. “I tried to tell you, but you kept cutting me off.”

Mom’s face has gone straight and strict, and her voice is tight. “Tell me what?” I can feel Nana, Papa, and Aunt Sofia looking at me expectantly too.

I steel my back and force confidence into my voice. “Colin and I broke up.”

“Dio Mio!” someone says as pandemonium breaks out, everyone asking me questions at once.

Mom claps sharp and quick, corralling the craziness into a hushed anticipation. “Violet Antonia Carlotta Russo, who is coming to dinner?” she asks but doesn’t wait for an answer, running to the window to peek out. Nana and Aunt Sofia follow suit, and after a quick heartbeat, I do too.

Out the window, Ross’s blue sportscar is parked against the curb. He gets out and walks around the back bumper, his eyes scanning the address and then landing on the window where four female faces peer out.

He looks good. He’s changed from the custom suit I saw him leave in this morning, replacing it with navy slacks and a pale blue button-down shirt that’s open at the neck. Cognac dress shoes and a matching belt complete the outfit. I wonder for a second if he chose the outfit after listening to me say his black and steel office was cold and sterile, because right now, he looks warm and friendly and sexy as hell.

He does that hot-boy two-finger wave, and I feel like my very own Jack Ryan is coming to get me. God, if only he could rescue me out of this mess.

But in a way, I guess he is. After all, it’s my crazy plan. Well, Abi’s, really, but it’s my neediness that prompted the whole thing.

“Is that Ross Andrews?” Mom says as recognition dawns.

“He’s got good taste in cars,” Papa says conversationally from the window on the other side of the room as my heart hammers. “Not Italian, but an American classic will do. Who’s the guy?”

I run to the door, ignoring their questions, and rip it open. “Ross . . . uhm, hey. I haven’t had a chance to explain . . .”

The congenial smile on his face falters for just a second, but I see