“About that—” I start, but Nana and Sofia are back at each other in Italian, half arguing, half reminiscing. I catch some of it, honestly. While I’ve tried to keep up with my Italian, I’m nowhere near fluent.

I sigh, glancing at Mom, who’s got stars dancing in her eyes. “The dress. Did you find the dress?”

My face falls. “Mom . . .”

She bumps my shoulder again, smiling broadly. “Oh, don’t you worry, baby girl. You’ll find it. And no more apologies about going with your friends. I completely understand that if you invited me, those two would want to tag along.” She tilts her head toward Nana and Aunt Sofia. “And then Colin’s mom would want to go. It’s a domino effect and we’re a lot to handle. It’s right that you go with your friends, and I know you’ll look beautiful in whatever you choose. I got my dress! Did I tell you?”

She rambles on about the mauve pleated gown she chose, not letting me get a word in edgewise, though I try several times.

Somewhere after the third time I try to interject, Mom tsks. “But Violet, we must send the invitations out immediately. At this point, they’re nothing more than a formality since everyone already knows the day and time, but it is still the proper thing to do.”

“Mom, about that . . .”

“Violet, finish browning the sausage, will you?” Nana says to me, pointing to a skillet on the stove. “And Maria, lay out the first layer of pasta and cheese while we get this sauce right. I need to fix what this nincompoop has done.”

“Nincompoop? I’ll show you a nincompoop!” Aunt Sofia shoots back, which is almost funny coming from a gray-haired woman who goes to Mass three times a week. Especially 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.