My Big Fat Fake Wedding - Lauren Landish Page 0,95
applause when he’s done.
“You know, Morgan, you have quite the son,” Nana says, trying yet again to strike up a conversation with Dad. Unfortunately for her, most of his replies have been grunts or one-word answers, to the point he’s damn near come off as a caveman. “He’s been so kind. And the children he and Violet will have . . . oh, my, you’re going to have to hire security to keep them in line and safe. Did Violet tell you that twins and triplets run in the family?” She winks and laughs, like she’s letting us in on a big family secret.
Violet half chokes on her white wine, spraying her plate a little as she tries to control herself. “Nana, it’s a bit early for that talk, don’t you think?”
Dad’s eyes cut to me, hot fire burning in their depths. Once upon a time, that look would’ve terrified me, gotten me to stop doing just about anything in my desire to please him. Now, I throw my arm over the back of Violet’s chair and pull her closer to me. He grunts, which Nana takes as a response to her joke.
The band strikes up a tune, and I decide maybe a little dancing is just what we need. It’s a lot better than encouraging them to keep on about me and Violet making babies.
“I’ll save mine until they play Sinatra,” Nana says when I offer her my hand. “Go on, now. Show your woman there some fun.”
I nod, holding my hand out to Violet, who takes it almost shyly. I chuckle a little when a couple of young men come over to ask Vanessa and Marissa for dances, but I lose track as I pull Violet into my arms and we start to move.
I make a show of it, doing my best to pull up everything that I can remember from the social dancing classes Mom insisted I take in junior high school, what I can think of from being forced to watch DWTS with Abi, and whatever my mind can come up with to distract Violet from the tension in the air.
I twirl her, I swing her, and we practically parade around the dance floor as the bandleader plays some up-tempo jazzy music, downshifting only when I’ve got Violet leaned back, her hair thrown back and her body stretched out in my arms. “Now that’s how you finish a dance,” I say against the skin of her neck before pressing a soft kiss there to test her pulse. It’s beating almost as fast as mine.
“Whoa,” Violet says, smiling and a bit hazy-eyed as I straighten her up and pull her closer for a slower song, a sultry instrumental version of Waiting For A Girl Like You by Foreigner. “Look at you with all the moves.”
I drop my voice, whispering hotly in her ear. “I’ll show you some moves when we get home.” Flirting with her is easy, comfortable ground, and desire works its way through me in a flash.
Violet chuckles ruefully. “Even if it means twins? Or triplets?”
“Let them enjoy their fantasy. I’ve got a few of my own, too,” I tell her, remembering my earlier plans to lean her over the dining table in this dress. “They’ll talk either way.”
“Except for your dad,” Violet answers, biting her lip. My flirtiness drops away as she says, “The way he was with my family . . . it was damn near hostile.”
“I know, and I’m sorry. I swear it’s not about them, though. It’s me,” I try to explain. But Violet looks unconvinced.
“Baby girl, mind if I cut in?” Maria asks her daughter. “You know, for some practice for the reception?”
“Of course, Mom,” Violet says. “I think I need a drink, anyway.”
Maria and I start to dance, and as we do, she gives me a smile. “You’re doing pretty well, amico.”
“Friends now, are we?” I tease. “Should I start calling you Madre?”
“Only if you want my high heel in your butt,” Maria says with a laugh. “But seriously . . . I’m no fool, Ross. I can see your father doesn’t approve. I got that look a lot of times after I got pregnant, people thinking they could judge me when they couldn’t.”
These Russo women are killing me tonight with their perceptiveness.
I repeat the same thing I just told Violet. “It’s not about you or Violet. It’s about me. Dad doesn’t think I’m good enough for her, not the other way around.”