Chapter One

Nora

My phone vibrates against the bookstore's bistro table, flashing me an alert.

Feed Tairn.

I groan as I silence the reminder.

I've been a lot of girls in my life, courtesy of too many moves and forced reinventions—the new girl, the weird girl, the poor girl—but in these last three days of pet sitting for my manager-turned-best-friend Benji, I've reluctantly become the reptile girl.

I hop up from where I've been flipping through How to Build a House in the tiny cafe and dodge a few bookshelves to get to the checkout counter, mentally adding the word "joists" to my lexicon.

For years, I've promised myself that when I finally attained a permanent address—if ever I could—I'd volunteer with Habitat for Humanity to give other people the same. A place to call their forever home. Sure, I know next to nothing about how to do the work, and I once confused a jigsaw for a staple gun, but if books could teach me how to apply for colleges, poach an egg, and change my car's oil, they can teach me how to build a house from scratch, right?

But first: duty calls.

Tairn's glass enclosure looms large behind the counter. He tracks my every move as I scan the shelves beneath the counter for the tiny Rubbermaid labeled Critter Feed . I'm not afraid of the little guy, but I am terrified of what it eats.

Bugs. Live ones. Tairn's diet is straight out of Fear Factor .

With a shudder, I grab the daisy-printed gardening gloves I bought for just such occasions, slide them on, and remove the container from its shelf.

When Benji said he was getting an animal to take to and from the bookstore every day, I imagined a cuddly kitten or fluffy rabbit—not a bearded dragon. But when the owner of your dream workplace becomes your best friend and his flight home is delayed, you glove-up and feed his pet no matter the species. Them's the rules.

"All right," I announce. "Let's get this over with."

Tairn stares back at me with thinly veiled scorn in his beady eyes as I open the stepladder. Benji literally puts this dude on a pedestal.

"You'll make it up to me by rocking your Cheshire Cat costume tomorrow." I climb enough steps to reach the sliding latch door on top, distracting myself with thoughts of tomorrow's bookish tea party. Benji humors me by allowing these events, and I attempt to humor him back by making Tairn the cutest mascot there ever was. "It's just a fuzzy tail wrapped around your real tail and some tiny cat ears. You can handle that, right? And next month, you're getting a cravat in honor of the Regency Era theme."

Talking mildly distracts me from the contents of the container and the double whammy of fear and nausea working through me, so I continue babbling about a Mr. Darcy costume as I insert my arm inside the glass. I tilt the container sideways and give it a little shake. " Gah , so gross, so gross, so gross—"

"Feeding time?"

I yank my arm out and wheel around at the unfamiliar voice. Or try to, anyway. The ladder I forgot I was standing on sways, and I lose my balance just enough that I fumble the container trying to steady myself. An unholy scream leaves my mouth as half the roaches go flying and land on the scuffed wooden floor.

"Oh no!" The words feel like they come out in slow motion as I clomp down the two steps. Meanwhile, the bugs scatter across the cedar floor. I flail around looking for the lid to the Rubbermaid to prevent another spill but swiftly remember I need this container open to put them all back. I drop to my hands and knees and grab the nearest bug.

"Shit," the deep voice says. "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to— Let me help." The stranger moves to circle the counter but stops just shy of going behind it. "Wait, am I allowed behind the counter?"

My pulse thunders in my ears."Please, yes, help me get these hell beasts off the floor! Do they lay eggs? Wait, don't answer that! I'll have nightmares."

He kneels with a piece of paper in his hand.

"What's that for?"I ask his shins.

"I grabbed it off the counter to scoop! Should I not scoop?"

"Yes, try it!"

He sets to work, but the hell beasts do not wish to be scooped and either scurry away every time he tries or fall right off before he can pour them into the container.

"Here, try this." I pull off a glove and toss it at him. It hits his Mets cap and bounces off. "Put it on and use your hand as a broom and the paper as a dustpan."

The daisy pattern stretches and morphs as he jams his big hand into the fabric. Once it's in place, he rids the floor of bugs with sweeping motions of his hand, gathering them onto his paper and pouring them into the container.

Crisis contained.

He balls up the dustpan paper as I snap the Rubbermaid lid in place. I fall back on my haunches, pressing my knees together as I pant from the exertion of panic. Had I known I would be crawling around on the floor, I wouldn't have worn a short denim skirt to work.

"One last check to be sure." The stranger lies on his stomach, arms in push-up position, and examines the two-inch gap beneath the checkout counter.The brim of his hat obscures his face.

"Please tell me we didn't miss any," I bemoan. "I cannot infest this store the one and only time the owner leaves town."

His deep voice bounces off the floor. "We're in the clear."

"These gloves are now compromised." I tug mine off and hurl it into the trashcan beneath the register.

He sits up and follows my lead, chucking his glove in after mine.Our eyes meet for the first time and his features strike an immediate, harmonious chord in my brain.

His warm brown eyes are framed by dark lashes, and a few freckles dot the bridge of his nose. Lines near his mouth could give way to dimples, and not knowing if they do is going to drive me a little batty until he smiles. His cheeks are high and lightly flushed, the kind that probably get pinched a lot at grocery stores by saucy elderly ladies who can't help themselves.

Wowza .

When we rise from the ground, he unfurls an extra foot compared to me. Leftover adrenaline dances through me as my gaze climbs his body, taking note of old but stylish Adidas sneakers, snug jeans with a streak of paint near the pocket, and a tight, no-nonsense white shirt. A hint of dark ink peeks out from beneath the edge of his short sleeve.

I take a deep breath, willing my heart rate to slow down. "Thanks for the help."

"No need to thank me. I'm the one who snuck up on you." He adjusts his cap. Dark hair just long enough to curl at the edges wisps out from beneath. "You are open, right? The door was unlocked."

"We're open. The bell is broken, and I was too distracted to hear the door."

The stranger's gaze darts to Tairn's enclosure. "Got it." Distracted talking to a bearded dragon, he may as well say. Lord knows he heard it all. "I was hoping to talk to the manager. Sorry it's late in the day—I ran here from work."

His skin does have that sheen of a workout or at least a hard day's labor. And, since he's built like a bodyguard—big enough to throw down but trim enough to blend in—I have no trouble imagining him actually running .

My gaze boomerangs off his tattooed biceps, heat creeping up my neck. "Manager, yes. That's me. Did you need help finding something?"

"I'm Sebastian Rossi from the local chapter of the Boys and Girls Club. I spoke to the owner a few weeks back about using this space with a few of our mentor-mentee teams. He told me to come by to speak with the manager today."

Not at all what I expected this guy to say, and not just because Benji never mentioned the Boys and Girls Club to me.

I absently pat the pocket of my skirt for my phone, AKA the vessel that holds the almighty calendar I live and die by. I must've left it on the table. "Sure. I can show you around and you can tell me if the space will suit your needs. Would that work?"

The sun streaming in from the window hits him just right, as though he chose to stand in that spot on purpose. His olive-toned skin boasts an easy tan, the kind that endures year-round. His eyes—an indulgent brown—scan the store. "That'd be great."

I take three large steps to circumvent the counter. "Okay, on the right we've got the cafe. Let me just tell you upfront we don't serve food in case that's a dealbreaker. You'd think it goes without saying in a place with no kitchen, but you'd be surprised how many people ask me for sandwiches."

A chuckle gets caught in his throat. "So, there will be no sandwiches on this tour or otherwise. Got it."

"Correct." I point vaguely in that direction. "The Cuisinart is so old one wrong noise could shatter the glass, but it still works. We sell coffee for a dollar a cup." I pause. "Wait, you said you work with kids, right? So you probably don't want to caffeinate the tiny humans."

"I mentor high school athletes—they guzzle Red Bulls to wind down. Our tutoring groups used to meet at Starbucks on North Brunswick Street but, uh"—his lips pull into a line—"the kids really don't have the money to spare, and all the mentors spend cash on overpriced drinks for everyone so they don't feel weird taking up table space. I'd rather give a local business my money."

My heart goes a little gooey. I wouldn't have been able to afford a single thing on the Starbucks menu when I was younger. Every spare dollar my mother or I could scrape together went to rent or car maintenance. Heck, sometimes those things were one and the same when our car was our home. "Their prices are a disgrace. Almost ten dollars a drink? I'll grow my own spiced pumpkins and peppermint sticks, thank you."

His lips lift into a polite smile. "That'd be a hell of a farm."

So he does have dimples.

Distracting ones.

"Right. Onward." I move toward the bookshelves.

He walks with swagger, there's no denying it. Hands in his pockets, chin slightly lifted so he can see from beneath the bill of his cap, ground-eating strides born of his long legs.

"And over here we have the money makers." I guide him past rows of free-standing bookshelves toward a wall of built-ins that extend all the way to the ceiling. "General fiction, fantasy, all the other book-shaped things. My Beauty and the Beast sliding ladder is broken, though. Just know it's very cool when it's functional."

"Broken?" He glances sideways. "Which part of it?"

"I'm not sure, actually. The whole thing feels looser than it's supposed to these last few days, so I'm trying not to use it until I figure it out."

He stares at the ladder like he's powerless against its lure. I want to gather his attention back, but the strong line of his jaw steals mine. There's shadow but no stubble, a hint of what's to come.

"Huh. That's not good." He wraps his fingers around a rung and tests it for stability. A burnished gold class ring that looks far too old to be his clinks against the metal. Princeton . "Do you have someone to fix it?"

"Oh, I wasn't trying to suggest you had to fix it." I spin the gold band around my pointer finger, which is very much not from Princeton, as I add, "You already helped me exterminate the store. I'm not trying to bother you for manual labor, too."

"If you're sure."

Warmth skitters across my chest as I hug myself. "Yes, but thank you anyway. The owner gets back from a trip today and he'll take care of it."

"Good." He gives the side of the ladder one last little shake. "It's the top track that's loose and not the ladder itself, if you want to let him know."

My brows lift. "You figured that out fast."

"I spend way too much time on ladders." Our gazes collide. "This place is great. What would you charge for us to use the cafe space once a week for tutoring? Likely through the end of next school year, but we'll start with August and reevaluate after."

Pride swells in my chest. I lugged those bistro tables here from a yard sale, chose the paint color and furniture, and arranged the layout to maximize gathering space. It's the same way I'd probably feel if someone told me my apartment was great. "I wouldn't charge you. It's nice, what your club is doing."

Boyish enthusiasm sneaks into his tone. " Really? Are you sure?"

"Yes," I say with a chuckle. "I'm sure you'll buy plenty of cups of our mediocre coffee to make it worth our while."

His half smile is just as potent as his full smile. "That's very true. Well, thank you. What do I need to do next?"

"I can set up a recurring calendar invitation for the days." I shuffle sideways and pluck my phone off the table. "I just need an email."

"Okay." His hands curl around his hips. All that does is draw my attention to the fit of his jeans. "Do you want mine or the manager's?"

While curious what his chosen email address might reveal about him, I temper the urge to say yours . "Whoever is in charge of coordinating is fine."

"Probably the manager." He takes off his hat, runs his hand through thick hair, and replaces it. It's the perfect brown to complement his eyes. "Though he's not the most responsive guy, honestly. Maybe I should just give you mine?"

I'm not sure if he's asking himself or me, so I offer him a tentative smile and wait for whatever email he wants to give me.

Or, you know, his phone number. For professional reasons.

"It'd just make sense," he continues, "since I'm the one rallying all the other mentors for now. They need some kind of leader, since they don't have good direction coming from anyone else." His gesticulating picks up speed and intensity like he's getting riled up. "The thing is, the manager of this region is very hands-off and doesn't seem to want to be troubled with operational details. He's kind of an ass, actually. Not sure who hired him for that particular role, since communication is almost one hundred percent of the job."

For someone with paint on his jeans and a rough-and-tumble physique—as in, this guy has never been picked last for any sports team in his life—he's oddly polished discussing the operational details of this organization. And impassioned. "Oh?"

"Sorry, ignore me. I'm usually…" He lets out a frustrated sigh and waves his hand. "I'm usually in charge. The mentor gig is different for me. And temporary. Not that I don't enjoy it, because I do. I'm just usually the one setting up clubs." His gaze catches mine and he scratches his neck. "Here I am rambling while you probably need to get ready for your party."

I blink a few times, snapping myself out of a mini trance. His deep voice is like cashmere. "Sorry, what? My party?"

He points at my hair. "Birthday?"

I lift my hand to check for frizz and slap the purple party hat I 100 percent forgot I was wearing to advertise tomorrow's event. With a rough jerk, I tear it off my head. It says Join us for an un-birthday party! and I was very proud of it, until about three seconds ago.

"Oh. No party." My attention jumps to the purple, black, and white balloon arch across the store that I painstakingly set up this afternoon. "There's an event tomorrow to discuss Alice in Wonderland and its retellings. I don't throw parties for myself at my own workplace. Or anywhere. Not that there's anything wrong with celebrating your own birthday, if you do that." I press my lips shut for a few seconds and smooth my hair. "Now I'm rambling."

"I don't mind." His eyes meet mine. The shade of brown looks like caramel taffy stretched and held up to the light. His gaze flits lower, lingering…

Impossible. He's not looking at my mouth.

"What's your number?" he asks.

Heat gathers low in my belly as I rattle off a string of digits.

"There. I texted you my email address." He looks up. "I'm not sure I caught your name."

My fingers toy with the sparkly fuzz lining the bottom of the party hat. "I'm Nora. D'Amato, if you need the whole thing. For legal reasons. Like, relating to using the store for your job."

I'm surprised I didn't choke on that word salad. Not that there's any reason to be nervous, since there's no dating potential here. It's purely business.

But then…he's not looking at me like this is purely business.

Goose bumps ripple down my arms. I really hope he can't see those in case I'm misconstruing the flicker of interest in his eyes. His thumb absent-mindedly runs up and down the side of his phone as he stares.

"And what if I'd wanted your name and number for personal reasons?" he asks.

My heart flutters like a butterfly taking flight. "Personal reasons?"

The corner of his mouth lifts. "If you're free tomorrow, maybe you'd like to—"

The front door swings open on its hinges so hard it nearly breaks off.

I want to blurt finish your sentence, but a harried, sweaty Benji blasts into the bookstore and tramples the moment. Physically imposing but forever unaware of his strength and the space he takes up, Benji rams an elbow into the endcap of the first bookshelf he passes in his haste to get inside.

Two women bring up the rear. One is middle-aged with an aggressive black bob, a tie-dye shawl straight from the seventies, and a loaded charm bracelet circling her wrist. She gives Benji's height a run for its tall money, but whereas she is adorned in enough colors to fill a box of crayons, Benji resembles an angel of death in four different shades of black from his hair to his Converse sneakers.

The other woman all but chasing Benji is younger, maybe late twenties like me, and rocking a striped maxi-dress that accentuates her curves. Her sleek raven hair hangs pin-straight down her back.

They're familiar. I mentally match their likenesses with the lone family photo I've seen of Benji's on his living room wall. This is the mother he's always "spared me from meeting" because she's "too damn much," and the sister who tries to marry him off to all her friends, Rosalina.

His mother continues a speech she must've started outside."You think women just make new eggs? We don't. We're born with a set number, and when they're old, they're old." Her arms move like she's landing a plane, charms jangling as she follows Benji through the bookshelves. "And it'll take months from when you start dating to get to a proposal, and then it'll take months from there to lock down a church and plan the wedding, then the wedding itself, and then more months of trying. You're thirty-four years old already! You're falling behind schedule."

"Can we please drop this?" Benji wheels his suitcase toward the checkout desk across the store. If he notices Sebastian and me against the wall, he doesn't show it. "I know how time works. You remind me once a week about ticking clocks and procreation. Now, I appreciate the ride from the airport—even though I was planning to take an Uber and told you not to come—but you're free to go about the rest of your evening. I'm here safely."

Rosalina sighs. "Ma, you're coming in too hot. Let me handle this."

"I just want what's best for you, Benjamino," his mother replies, ignoring Rosalina's warning. "Why won't you let your poor mother help you? Is it because I insulted your beard?"

"It's not the beard!" Benji gripes. "I'd just rather not discuss my love life. I appreciate the concern, but I'm very busy with work. I've been out of town for three days and I have pressing matters to attend to."

I snort internally. If by "pressing matters" he means gathering up Tairn and his critter feed and taking them home, then heck yes, he does.

"Listen, why don't I just text you the names and numbers of those girls I told you about, and then we'll get out of your hair," Rosalina insists. She rummages in the depths of her satchel bag, grumbling about her slippery phone. "Odds are you'll like at least one of them."

Perhaps sensing how futile resistance truly is, Benji shakes his head and begins poking around behind the counter. As he's sliding the cash register from one spot to another—for no discernable reason—I feel a stab of pity for him.

In the year and a half I've worked here, the introverted (read: people-averse) Benji has gone on as many dates as I have. Zero. Unlike me, he's perfectly content with that choice. Many a night has been spent with me window shopping Tinder profiles from his couch while he plays Call of Duty in his four-hundred-dollar gamer chair across the living room, uninterested in putting himself out there.

His family clearly doesn't respect his choice.

His mother wanders down an aisle and plucks a book off the erotica shelf. She starts flipping until she reaches the middle. I wince as she cracks the spine.

Sebastian takes a small step closer and lowers his voice. "I'm going to head out."

Before I can form a response, he's halfway across the store. He pauses at the checkout desk and knocks a fist lightly on the counter as he nods discreetly toward the women. "Stay strong, brother."

Benji grunts out a thanks.

The broken bell above the door fails to jingle as Sebastian exits.My pulse hammers as I track him through the giant bay window.

Damn, damn, damn . The first intriguing man I've met in years is walking out the door before I can figure out exactly what direction our conversation was heading. Was it a friendly dinner invitation? Maybe something more?

If it were anyone other than Benji Ferraro flailing in front of me, I'd skip after Sebastian and find out.

But it is Benji. And he could clearly use my support right now.

I tear the suction cup of my gaze off the window and return my attention to my friend.

"Found it," Rosalina announces in triumph as she lifts her phone in the air. She begins typing with abandon. "Okay, I'm sending you the names of two women who are available on such short notice, their phone numbers, and what they look like in case you have a preference. What is your physical preference, anyway? For future setups?"

Benji levels her with a stare she can't see because her eyes are glued to the screen. "Rosalina, I am begging you not to press send on those—"

His phone chimes.

He closes his eyes and exhales.

Benji has told me about his overeager family and why he mostly avoids them, but seeing them in action makes it crystal clear. If I watch this go on any longer and don't intervene, I'll be complicit in the crimes of meddling being committed here today.

Benji is the only best friend I've had. My social life before him was a barren wasteland. Now it's a barren wasteland only five days a week, because we go out to dinner or play strategy board games the other two. When I had mono a few months after moving to Great River, he had groceries delivered to my house every three days like clockwork and kept me well stocked on memes and videos.

I take the long way to the counter, passing Rosalina in the process.

"Honey! You're back!" I maneuver behind the counter and wind my arms around my friend's torso. "How was your trip? Pick up anything good for the store?"

His body tenses as I rest my head on his arm. I can feel his cells individually rejecting my touch one at a time. "What?"

"Seventy-two hours is a long time to be apart. I missed you every last one of them." I pivot my attention toward his family members, who are both staring at us with the intensity of the sun's rays at the equator. "Sorry, was I interrupting something?"

Rosalina lowers her phone, her hazel eyes widening to cartoonish proportions. "Not at all. I don't think we've met. I'm Rosalina, and that's our mother Veronica with the book. And you are?"

"I'm his girlfriend Nora." I bat my lashes their way. "Thank you both for picking him up. Ubers are so overpriced, and I was stuck here manning the store."

"Girlfriend?" Rosalina gasps. "Why didn't you say something? We've been going on and on about other women!"

All eyes are on Benji. Including mine, because I couldn't exactly run this little plan by him ahead of time.

After a biblical length of time, his shoulders rise and fall. "You didn't let me get a word in edgewise."

Veronica, clutching Tempting the Duke against her chest, looks from me to Benji. In Italian, she asks, "Why did you hide the sea pearl?"

In English, he answers, "She speaks Italian."

That's half true. I speak butchered Italian, courtesy of that stretch of time my mother decided we should honor our heritage more and played a language learning course every time we rode in her car. We racked up a lot of miles. I conjugated a lot of verbs.

Rosalina gives Veronica an impatient look. "Sorry for my mother. It's just that we didn't realize Benji had a girlfriend. Why he wouldn't at least tell his sister is beyond me"—she pauses to offer him a brief but pointed glare—"but this is so exciting."

Benji speaks as if through gritted teeth. "Yes, yes, very exciting. Anyway—"

"Thank the good Lord." Veronica uses the smutty paperback to make the sign of the cross, her voice choked with emotion. "We were so worried the wedding photos would be unbalanced. We thought he'd be the only single Ferraro, sullen in the back of every portrait."

" You were worried," Rosalina argues. "I couldn't care less about that. I just wanted him to come and have a good time." She moves her focus back to Benji, her tone the antithesis of a good time when she adds, "Since I never see you otherwise."

"We aren't going to this wedding to have a good time, Rosalina," Veronica says, shuddering at the idea. "That ship sailed the minute you chose to marry a Mazzelli. We're going to support you . And take damn good photos for the family wall with our extended relatives. And maybe teach the Mazzellis a thing or two about class and decency while we're all forced to be together for the week—"

"Please, Ma," Rosalina snaps. "You promised a truce, remember? To be on your best behavior, at least until after the wedding?"

Veronica mutters something that sounds like biting my tongue under her breath.

I pull back to look at Benji. "Wedding?"

He holds my eye for the first time since he rolled in, wordlessly communicating his loathing of the direction this conversation is taking. I'm not worried. Even if this bugs him, he'll be back to sending me links to niche videos and articles he thinks will interest me in no time. His friend-love-language is I found you a thirty-seven-minute-long compilation of your favorite game shows from the 1970s.

"The wedding is nothing for you to worry about," he tells me evenly. He tilts his head to regard Rosalina. "Nora is my new girlfriend, which means we haven't broached the topic of family events. And with the wedding being so soon, I wouldn't dare add a plus one at the last minute. I'll be there the day of the ceremony only, alone, as planned."

"Don't be ridiculous. The plus one doesn't expire for siblings." Rosalina clasps her hands beneath her chin as her attention shifts to me. "Please come to my wedding, Nora. The family will lose their collective shit to meet the woman who finally caught Benji's eye."

Benji makes a sound of dissent. "Eh, we wouldn't want to detract from your big day."

"You're not allowed to disagree with the bride, and I say bring her."

My "boyfriend" lets out an aggrieved sigh. "Why don't we wait until Christmas for her to meet the family?"

"That's seven months from now," Veronica interjects. "You want to keep her from the family for seven months? What kind of foundation are you building for your relationship if you don't let her get to know us?"

"A solid one. Lots of quality time." Benji smacks me on the shoulder. "Now, we've really got to get to work. Give everyone my love."

He says give everyone my love the way most people say get out.

I get it. His relationship with his family is complicated. According to the stories he's told me, his parents meddle in more than just his love life. He pivoted careers away from law—to his parents' disappointment—toward bookstore ownership and academia, and they won't let it go. And they want him to be, oh, a thousand times more involved in their day-to-day life than he has been as long as I've known him. Avoiding has been easier than dealing with all that, or so he told me the one and only time I've seen him truly drunk.

I try to remember the last time my mother—the only living family member that I know of—passed judgment on my choices. She loves me the best she can, but she's been completely consumed with her own life, unfulfilled dreams, and various boyfriends since I was old enough to form memories. It was the Lulu show and I was her unplanned, unwanted sidekick she learned to love. And if our life was a show, it would've been eighteen straight seasons of road trips, her flitting from mediocre job to mediocre job, and me never quite fitting in at any of my new schools. The plot would be driven by Mom's whimsy.

It's bizarre to feel so deeply on your own yet so entangled with another person at the same time. Our lives are linked yet distant, our relationship dependent but lonely, the contradictions playing out like a familiar song.

But I still miss her when we don't talk. Heck, I often miss her when we're in the same room. She'd never show up at my work like this. I'm not even sure she knows where I work, truth be told.

Rosalina leans across the counter, unabashedly peeking at my body as if finally getting an answer on what Benji's "physical preference" is. "I can sense we've overstayed our welcome, which is fine, because we've got reservations at Sushi King. Nora, I hope you'll talk some sense into my brother. The wedding would be a great way to meet everyone. And maybe you and I can get some quality time together, get to know each other?"

My ears perk up at the friendly offer. "That sounds nice. Thanks, Rosalina."

"You can call me Ro." She turns to Benji. "You know, Nonno will be thrilled to see you happy and on the path to settling down, whether at the wedding or after. He worries about you."

At this, something changes in Benji. His usually neutral, if not exasperated, expression softens, like this tacit Nonno approval is the first thing he's truly cared about since they walked in."And he'll be there all week?"

"He will," Ro says, her smile pointed. "He said he wouldn't miss it for the world."

Point: Ro.Even Benji seems to be considering the implication of this, of what it would mean to miss out on extra time with his grandfather.

I may not have a family like Benji's and therefore can't understand the intricate dynamics at play, but I know my friend. He rarely lets this part of him show—the part that wants something but doesn't know how to get out of his own way long enough to go after it. The internal struggle is written all over his face.

"Weddings are important," I say, not that I've been to one before. "It's decided: we'll be there for the week."

Benji's head whips my way, his gaze taking a sharp turn for the incredulous. "Can we discuss this later?"

Ro claps her nicely manicured hands. "Fantastic. It's settled! I'll update your RSVP for the caterer. Oh, I'm so glad we stopped by."

"Ambushed me at the airport," Benji murmurs under his breath as Rosalina saunters toward the exit.

Ro pauses at the edge of Veronica's aisle on her way out. "You buying that or just reading it for free?"

Veronica startles and shoves the book back onto the shelf. After a second of consideration, she snatches it back off, flashing the cover our way. "Put this one on my tab, Benjamino, would you? You know how I love history."

They are barely through the door when Benji's forehead hits the counter. His groan skates across the surface, fogging it.

"You're welcome. Happy to help," I say, patting his shoulder. "Your sister is friendly. Why don't you ever talk about her? Though, in fairness, you almost never talk about your family. Were you not planning on telling me—"

"Jesus, Nora." As if it takes every ounce of energy he possesses, he lifts his head just enough to glare at me. "You have no idea what you've just gotten us into."