The Sweetest Oblivion (Made, #1)(16)

“And I kept thinking, maybe there’s a reason he manspreads so much? His is big. Then I began to worry, so I started looking up pictures—well, videos—of men his size, naked, and that only made me worry more.”

“You were watching porn,” I said, deadpan, standing in the closet doorway and watching her paint Mr. Rabbit beneath the black rainbow.

She tilted her head to eye her masterpiece. “Yeah, I guess that’s what it’s called.”

“Adriana!”

My sister groaned, and I looked toward the door. Mamma wore a red cocktail dress and an angry expression. A slew of Italian flew past her lips as she snatched the dress from my hand and then smacked Adriana on the back of the head. “Shower, now!”

Adriana grumbled and got to her feet.

“And porn!” More Italian. “What were you thinking?”

A laugh escaped me.

Mamma shot me a glare, and I turned it into a cough. She had always shown up at the most inopportune times. We couldn’t get away with anything.

“Elena, go pacify the Russo. Lord forbid he starts shooting the guests again.”

“Me? What am I supposed to do?”

All I received were a few sentences of berating Italian that didn’t even address the current topic at hand. When my mamma went off, she’d talk about everything but what she was currently mad about. This time, it was how she broke a favorite porcelain dish earlier, Nonna complained about her lunch again, and the gardener hadn’t shown up today. Which was definitely for the best . . .

Guests trickled in the front door as I made my way down the staircase. I wore a pink choker maxi dress, heels with a bow that tied around my ankles, and my hair down, pinned to one side. Even though I didn’t approve of this marriage, it didn’t mean I wasn’t going to take the opportunity to dress up. Frankly, it was the highlight of my week.

“Elena!” my cousin Sophia squealed as she came through the front door. “Squealed” was the best way to explain it. She was nineteen with a constant mischievous expression.

“I’ve missed you!” She threw her arms around me, and I took a step back at the impact.

“I just saw you at church Sunday,” I laughed.

“I know.” She smacked a “mwah” on each of my cheeks and pulled back. “But so much has happened since then.” She hadn’t been here for the lunch incident, but I understood my family well enough to know that my three-year-old cousin Caitlin would be able to recite the entire event like she’d been present.

“Where’s Sal?” I asked. Her older brother was a male version of her.

“He ran into Benito out front. You know, ‘man talk’.” She rolled her eyes. “All right. I’m going to go find us some alcohol. Then we need to talk about this Nico I’ve been hearing about.”

“Check out the bloodstain on the patio. That’s all there is to tell,” I told her.

“That’s not what I’ve heard. Mamma said he’s hotter than David Beckham.”

“I don’t know who that is.”

Her mouth gaped. “You’re living under a rock, Elena. Too many books, not enough TV.”

“The quote of the century,” I mumbled wryly as she saw another cousin, squealed their name, and left me there.

For a moment, I stood alone in the foyer. The windows and patio doors were open, allowing the summer air to flow through the house. It was a beautiful night, and I was praying it didn’t end up like the last time we’d had the Russos over. Tony wouldn’t be here, so we had a much better chance.

I turned to find Papà, to tell him there was an issue with Adriana’s dress and that she was going to be late, and to let him relay that to Nicolas, but, before I could, the front door opened once again. Bitterness crawled up my throat, but it was now too late to get away.

Nicolas Russo had the worst reputation of any man I’d met, hands down. Though, somehow, I’d found the courage to be myself around him, not the Sweet Abelli everyone used to know and expected me to be forever. But just as it was when someone got sucked into their old habits by the people they hung out with, I was tumbling back into the abyss of fake smiles and fake words, and I didn’t know how to get out.

“Elena.”

Warm air brushed my skin as the front door shut, and I longed to be on the other side. But instead, I smiled politely. “Oscar.”

Mid-thirties, with dirty blond hair and expensive suits always worn with a colored tie, Oscar Perez was handsome in a classic and charismatic way. He never lacked female attention, yet he always lavished his on me. He worked for my papà and was often around for parties, but since we’d had nothing going on I hadn’t seen him in months, since before the incident. It was one of the biggest reliefs, but unfortunately, all good things have to come to an end.

“Don’t you look as beautiful as always,” he told me, giving me a kiss on each cheek and lingering too long. “Demasiado hermosa para las palabras.”

I didn’t know what he’d said, but I assumed it had something to do with my symmetrical face.

I stared at his light blue tie, the color of his eyes.

I hated it.

He was the fairest Colombian I’d ever met, and for some reason I resented his blond, comely appearance. What a lie it was.

“Thank you,” I said, trying to take a step back, but his hand went to my lower back and drifted to the top of my ass. My stomach tightened with unease. He was lean but tall, and his presence consumed me like a bad aftertaste.