My Big Fat Fake Wedding(53)

“I did not! And you should count yourself lucky to eat my gnocchi!”

Papa grins. “I’ve been eating your gnocchi for decades, and you never complain.”

That bad metaphor has both Mom and me groaning, and Ross laughs. Leaning over, he whispers in my ear, “Just wait, honey. Before you know it, I’ll be nibbling on your gnocchi, and maybe I’ll let you taste my cannoli.”

I blush deeply but can’t help but take advantage of the golden opportunity Ross has presented me with. “Do you know what cannoli means?”

Ross nods, his eyebrow quirked. “The pastry tube things with cream inside?”

“Papa, could you tell Ross what cannoli translates to, literally?”

He can read the teasing smirk on my face and can follow the thread from his teasing with Nana. He grins widely, holding his fingers a couple inches apart.

“Little tubes. I think you might want a different metaphor . . . éclair, maybe?”

The moment of silence is broken by raucous laughter by everyone at the table. And the firing squad seems to have called a momentary truce.

Conversation returns to the family members who are traveling in for the wedding and the festivities to come. I glance at Ross, who is smiling and glibly mixing into the conversation, and finally, I put my spoon down.

This feels comfortable. But the stab in my heart reminds me that it’s fake, and that hurts most of all because it does feel so right.

If only, my guilty heart reminds me.





Chapter 13





Ross —Wednesday—10 Days Until the Wedding





Something’s wrong. I thought last night with the Russos went fantastically, better than we’d hoped. But toward the end of the night, I could feel the tension weaving through Violet, even though she kept the warm smile on her face.

When we got home, she claimed exhaustion and went to bed immediately. When I’d lain down next to her, she hadn’t so much as made a peep, and I’d slept fitfully, worried about what was worrying her. This morning, she’d been all smiles, thanking me for her smoothie but swirling out the door for a client meeting before I could ask her a thing or we could talk about the dinner.

But I can read her like an open book. She’s hiding something, nerves and second thoughts and probably a fair amount of stress at our rushed timeline.

All things I can help with. I wish she’d ask me for help, but that’s not who Violet is. She’s independent, likes to handle her own shit, and is used to taking care of herself.

But I’m here for her now. Not to do it for her, but to do it with her. Because fake or real, we’re in this together, and we need to be able to lean on each other, for the wedding and for however long we decide the marriage needs to last.

So after a long day at the office, I escape home early to make some preparations. First up, my Versa Climber.

I slip my headphones in, listening to my workout mix as I pound my way up imaginary stairs. My record for a half hour workout is just short of a mile, but I’m expecting to do a little extra cardio tonight so I take it a bit easier.

As my arms grasp the main handles and my legs pump up and down, I try to mentally go over my checklist. My mind returns to all the things to do for the wedding and then to Violet. I try to imagine what it will feel like to stand at the front of her family’s church and see her walking down the aisle to me, taking my hand, and repeating vows to me in front of everyone.

I’m not a dreamer type of guy. This is the first time I’ve ever imagined what my wedding might be like, and I’m not surprised that the image Violet’s created in my head is what plays out. Perfect and beautiful and . . . us.

As I reach the fabled 1776 feet, I’m not thinking of how my body’s covered in sweat or that my arm and calf muscles are pumped. I’m thinking about Violet and the look in her eyes when she said yes to my proposal. I think we’d both felt a bit of something in that overwhelming moment.

But tonight is about not being overwhelmed. Not by deadlines, not by families, not by pressure. Not by anything.

Tonight’s about us. Two frenemies in a really weird situation who are going to make the absolute best of it. ‘Embrace the crazy’ is going to be our new motto.

I rinse off and pull on grey sweat shorts and a tank top, comfy and casual so she doesn’t suspect a thing when she gets home.

And then I get to work.





*



The phone rings and then hangs up, the signal I worked out with the doorman to warn me that Violet’s home. I light the candles and slide the plate and glass onto the small table.

“Ross?” I hear her call as she opens the door.

“In here,” I bellow down the hallway.

“Did you just get home? What are you doing . . . ?” Her voice trails off as she sees what I’ve been up to.

The bath is drawn, fresh rose petals floating on the surface and scenting the air. There are several candles on the vanity, giving the marbled room a soft blurriness it usually lacks. And there’s fresh, hot pizza and wine on the side table by the tub.

Her mouth drops open and her hands rise to cover the O of surprise. Behind her hands, I can hear the muffled, “Oh, my God! Ross!”

I smile, glad that she’s pleased. “I know last night was a lot, and planning the wedding is stressing you out. I thought you could use a bit of a break. Take 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.”