My Big Fat Fake Wedding(48)

I take the opportunity to grab Violet’s hands and pull her closer, kissing her. The line is blurry and getting blurrier by the second. We said this would be for show, but I find myself wanting to comfort her, touch her, know her, whether there’s anyone around or it’s just the two of us. But I can’t analyze that right now, not when she’s scared. Because that’s the label she’s looking for as she sinks against me, letting me support her.

Big, badass of a fighter Violet Russo is scared to introduce me to her family. And I’m a catch, so I know it’s because she doesn’t want to disappoint them or hurt them. She doesn’t like lying to them, and I get that.

“Don’t worry. Everything’s going to be fine, Violet. You’re my fiancée, my woman, Violet Russo.”

I don’t know where the words come from, not all of them . . . but they don’t help with Violet’s look. If anything, she looks even more confused and concerned.





Chapter 12





Violet —Tuesday—11 Days Until the Wedding





I knead the dough beneath my hands, confident in the one job Nana has let me do for years. There are certain dishes she still teaches me . . . Violet, we only use the best olive oil . . . not like that. It’s not a race. Be gentle, dear . . . now add the sauce. Perfecto.

But kneading dough is one of the first jobs she gave me, and I’ve been a pro since I was ten. The mindlessly repetitive work—and it is work—lets my mind wander. Right back to Ross.

The moments keep flashing in my head. The way he looks at me. The way he pulls me close to kiss me even when nobody is around. The way he talked me down after the meeting. The way I catch him following me with his eyes as we get ready for bed. The way I feel more relaxed with him by my side, even when my body is begging for more each night.

I want to believe it’s real. All of it.

Yes, I know the physical attraction is there. Which is surprising after a lifetime of calling each other names. But I know if I so much as make a hint of a gesture that I’m open to that, Ross would be on me. And I secretly want that.

If only it were that easy.

But it’s not. Mixed in with all that chemistry and desire is a heaping load of emotional baggage and drama. Because he’s good at this . . . at flirting with me, at making me feel like I’m the only thing that matters in his life, at being in a relationship with me. The big gestures and the little ones, like bringing me coffee in bed in the morning.

And that I know is fake. Or at least it doesn’t hold the meaning that some small part of me wishes it did.

But Ross is a good guy, so playing house and being nice isn’t a hardship for him. It’s just never been our MO, and having him be his usual self to me is doing weird things to my heart. Things I can’t trust.

This is just pretend, I remind myself. A means to an end.

And right now, in the kitchen with three generations of Russo women, I need that reminder of why I’m doing this.

“For the love of Susan Lucci, I’m telling you for your own good . . . Sofia, you put too much salt in with the tomatoes!” Nana says in an argument with her sister that can be traced all the way back to . . . well, before I was born, that’s for sure.

“Don’t you dare invoke the great Susan Lucci on me! Bah! You know nothing about how to make the sauce,” my great aunt, Sofia, shoots back as she points a red-tipped, arthritic hand toward Nana. She glares as she tosses another sprinkle of salt into the bubbling pot of tomato sauce on the stove. “It’s why your marinara is as bland as boiled potatoes!”

Oh, hell, it’s on now. You can call Nana a lot of things, but if you criticize her housekeeping or her cooking, you’re in for it.

“Did she invoke Susan Lucci?” Mom whispers, her brows clenched together. “Never thought about it, but I think I prefer Sophia Loren.” She smiles like I’m in on a secret joke between the two of us and bumps my shoulder. “I think we should just hang back and roll out the pasta,” Mom says under her breath as her mother and aunt go at it, forgetting their English to start with spicy, liquid Italian. I’m quite certain that it’s one advantage of the Latin languages over English. You can argue and curse at someone a whole lot faster and with a lot more imagination.

“Mom, about tonight’s dinner.” I try to sidestep my way in to telling her about Colin and Ross as we start rolling out the dough and slicing the fresh pasta sheets into the right shape for Nana’s big cast iron pan, but before I can, Mom looks up and sighs dramatically.

“Mama! Sofia! Come on, now, this is supposed to be a night of amore, not war! Violet’s bringing her man for dinner, not WrestleMania!”

Sofia, who lived in New York’s Little Italy until her husband Giuseppe died a decade ago, turns to us with a dreamy sparkle in her eyes. “WrestleMania? Child, you know nothing of wrestling. Giuseppe used to take me on dates to the Garden where we’d watch a real wrestler, Bruno Sammartino! Now if Bruno had asked me out . . . well, you’d have had a different uncle, that’s for sure.” She winks, or at least I think that’s what she’s trying to do, but both eyes close at the same time, so it’s more of a saucy blink. “God bless my Giuseppe’s soul,” she finishes as if she didn’t just say she would’ve picked another man over her beloved husband of forty years.