My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,68
a bath, eat dinner and drink wine, then get comfy. I’ve got a surprise for you when you’re done, but no rush. Take your time and relax.”
She shakes her head, and I think her eyes are bit glassy. “I can’t believe you did all this.” The shock seems to give way just a bit because she looks at me with that spark I know so well. “Did Kaede help you?”
I let my jaw fall open, feigning insult. “Of course not. The only help I had was the pizza place on 4th. They make the best fresh mozzarella, and their thin crust is crispy perfection. Oh, and I bought the roses from Abi. But don’t tell her I mutilated them for your bath or she’ll probably kill me. She was talking about heirloom this and boutique that. I just wanted some roses, so I nodded and took what she recommended. Long story short, those roses are some fancy-bougie stuff, so you should probably get in.”
She bites her lip and says gently, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome, Violet,” I say simply and then leave her to it. In the living room, I sit down and wait for her. She doesn’t take nearly as long as I expect. After less than an hour, I can hear the water draining and her soft footsteps around the bedroom.
She appears in a spaghetti-strap nightgown that hits mid-thigh, nothing too risqué, but seeing her soft-skinned and bare-faced is one of the sexiest visions I’ve ever seen. I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing her with her guard of power suits and icy glares gone. This softer side of her, with no barriers, calls to me and makes me feel like a lucky bastard to see her with her hair down, literally and metaphorically.
I pat the couch next to me, and she willingly comes over and sits beside me. Progress, I think, but I don’t dare tease her about it.
“Okay, now what? I feel like you’re buttering me up to rip the rug out from underneath me.” So distrustful and suspicious, especially of me, and that needs to change, starting now.
“No buttering. Just teamwork. Like my old football coach said, ‘Alone, we can do little. Together, we can do much.’ So that’s what we’re doing.” She tilts her head, not sure at all what I’m talking about.
I hand her my next offering, Cherry Garcia ice cream and a spoon. Violet smiles a little, her eyes clearing as she undoes the plastic seal and takes off the lid. “You know, Ross, you’re not always an asshole.”
“Thanks.” I admit with a chuckle, “I try not to be.” I shrug. “Well, sometimes, I try not to be, if we’re being honest.”
She laughs at my self-deprecation.
I watch with amusement as she stabs the ice cream with her spoon. I’ve learned from watching Abigail that there are two kinds of ice cream eating. If she’s running her spoon along the top, sort of gathering a layer of softer ice cream, things are good.
If she’s stabbing the ice cream like a villain in a horror movie . . . “So, what happened at dinner last night?”
She shrugs one shoulder but says, “You were there. You know.”
“Denial and avoidance? C’mon, Vi. You can do better than that. Talk to me. In for an ounce, in for a pound, so lay it on me.”
She eats another bite, flipping the spoon upside down onto her tongue to eat the creamy goodness as she thinks. “It was just a lot. I wasn’t ready when you got there and had planned to tell them first. And then it was this whole out-of-control scene, and then dinner was going so well, which was great. But it was just . . . a lot.”
I nudge her knee with mine. “Why, Violet Russo, it sounds like you’re a control freak or something. I planned . . . out of control . . .” I throw my voice into a high falsetto that sounds nothing like her, and she grins. In my own tenor, I reassure her. “Vi, it was fine. They loved me, and by the time we left, they were naming our children. They totally bought it and are looking forward to the wedding. That’s what you wanted.”
Violet pauses her ice cream eating. “I know. But it’s like they’re all ready, all settled about it, and this is all just one big party, a family event. Come see Violet get hitched and Stefano get planted. Two for one!”