My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,82
the wine.”
“Excellent,” I comment, checking my watch. I had to hurry to get everything prepared. Thankfully, building security is used to letting workers in if I call ahead. “Okay, my fiancée should be home in just a few minutes, so let’s make sure we’re on time.”
In fact, Violet’s a minute early, opening the door to the penthouse with a groan. “Oh, God, Ross, I still haven’t found a dress, and you wouldn’t believe how much my ribs hurt from the corsets. What’s all this?”
I smile, my crisp white shirt unbuttoned just enough to let her get a hint of my skin as I offer her my arm. “I thought something other than pizza and ice cream might be in order tonight,” I say lightly.
Violet looks at me suspiciously, her eyes clouded, and I wonder if she’s thinking about all the times I pulled shit on her when we were kids, sweet talking her one minute, only to humiliate her the next. “Where’s the frog?”
“I swear, not a frog in sight . . . although I must admit a certain mischievous side of me did think of putting frog legs on the menu for tonight. But in the end, the non-asshole side of me won out. I’d like to say I’ve grown up since high school, but I think it’s just your positive influence.” She rolls her eyes at my over-the-top flattery.
I lead Violet outside, where Chef awaits at a fully set table, dishes under cloches to stay warm, twin candles burning in silver candlesticks while a single red rose rests in a vase.
“What . . . you really shouldn’t have,” Violet tells me as I hold her chair for her.
“Of course, I should. You deserve it.” Chef goes to pour the wine, but I wave him off and pour the wine for Violet myself. “If I thought you wouldn’t have laughed at me, I’d have cooked myself, but unfortunately, my repertoire is pretty limited.”
“You make me happy with those smoothies,” Violet says quietly, and it’s my turn to feel the warmth flush my neck.
I make her happy. Somehow, those little words mean a lot to me.
“Give me some time, and I’ll figure out how to make a decent grilled cheese,” I say, unveiling dinner. “Here you go . . . lamb ravioli in a proper tomato sauce, garlic bread, and—”
“Lodovico wine!” Violet nearly squeals, seeing the bottle. “Oh, Ross! How’d you know?”
“Saw it in the kitchen,” I answer her, proud of myself. “What’s the story?”
“Lodovico is very special to Papa,” Violet explains. “It’s too expensive for any but the most special occasions. So the three bottles are for Nana and Papa’s wedding, Mama’s birth, and my birth. I’m almost afraid to ask, but—”
“We’ll put it on the menu at our reception,” I immediately answer her, raising my glass. “For now, to Violet Russo, who hurt her ribs today for love.”
Violet blushes, tapping her glass against mine. “Thanks. I’ll keep looking, but I do think I decided today that I don’t care how gorgeous the dress is. If I can’t breathe in it, it’s not the one.”
“Sounds reasonable,” I tell her.
We dig into our dishes, Violet moaning at the first bite. “Oh, my. Don’t tell Nana, but this is better than hers!”
“Don’t worry,” I reply with a chuckle. “She can’t hear you.”
“That’s good. You should have heard her and Aunt Sofia go at it before you showed up. She’d have my hide if I dared to compliment someone else’s cooking over hers.”
She tells me about her family, how Nana and Sofia go at it like cats and dogs half the time, while Papa catches his fair share of yelling too . . . but it’s all in love.
We move on to discussing our days, and she cheers for me when I tell her about the meeting going well. Her eyes turn to molten fire when I tell her about Dad’s private reaction, though, and the way she has my back warms me.
She shows me a glittery invitation, raving about Abi’s genius, and I have to agree with her. “Something else did happen today, though.”
Her tone is stilted, hesitant to share. I lay my hand over hers. “You can tell me anything, Violet.”
“Colin came by the flower shop. He saw my car outside and came in. He told me he wanted to get back together.”
My heart stops as cold fury lights its way from my gut to my fists, which clench unconsciously. “And?”