Chapter Three

Nora

" Passenger princess life is great." I crack my window to experience the fresh mountain air, creating a cross breeze that makes my hair go wild. "We should keep this up even when you aren't my boyfriend."

Benji cuts me a look as we lumber down a narrow road toward the Foxfire Lodge's parking lot. "I'm glad you're enjoying yourself. Also, I thought you were trading this in. The AC is fritzy."

"And I thought you'd decided to leave Tairn with a sitter this week. Guess we're both full of surprises."

He rubs his chin. For all his blustering that he was going to keep his beard despite his mom's opinion, he's clean shaven. "He gets separation anxiety. I'm not leaving him with someone else for six days."

I let this go, even though we both know it's Benji who gets separation anxiety. "You should be glad I've still got the Tahoe. It fits Tairn's portable house and our suitcases, as well as all my books. Your tiny Camry could never."

"This vehicle is the age of a high schooler."

"Which means it needs my parental support more than ever. I'm just not in a hurry to deal with trading it in. Tahoes have extremely high safety ratings."

He pokes the broken button that used to reset the trip meter. "So do Honda Odysseys. Safe and affordable."

"A minivan ? What am I, a suburban mother of six? No way."

"If my family asks, that's what you aspire to be."

I ignore his grumbling. "I'll drive this thing until the wheels fall off, and that's that. I've had it for a long time. It has sentimental value."

It was the first big object that was all mine, my first taste of freedom at age eighteen. And when I moved to Arizona for college, and then relocated to Washington for a corporate job, and then was forced to relocate again when the company opened a branch in California, it was my little slice of consistency.

More recently, it was my functional "home" for two weeks during my move to Great River. I drove myself across the country, sleeping at national and state parks along the way as I towed my tiny trailer with barely enough personal effects to fill it. It was the move that marked my final fresh start, at least for a few decades. After a lifetime of being dragged around the country, first by my mother and later by my own circumstances, I was ready to settle in one place.

After the last year and a half, I'm already certain New York was the best choice I've ever made.I'm never leaving.

I prop my favorite boots on the dash—white with embroidered flowers, hand-me-downs from my mom's coastal cowgirl era—and smooth my hand across the armrest. This SUV is a tangible bridge from my past to my present and loaded with memories. As always, when I let myself get attached to something, I have trouble letting it go. My heart is like a sticky trap for sentimental trinkets, moments, and people.

Benji adjusts the rearview mirror. "Parking lot looks pretty full. I'm taking it as a sign from beyond that this week is a horrendous mistake and we should go home."

I shoot him a look. "This week is happening, Captain Ominous. We came all the way here, and Rosalina is expecting us."

"She'll be too busy getting married to care. Hell, she's probably already forgotten I said we'd come for the week. Why couldn't we just come the day of the ceremony like I originally wanted?"

"Because she was so excited you agreed to the week. Don't you remember her squeal? And the rest of your family will care that you're here. Especially your grandfather. Right?"

He frowns, knowing I've trapped him with logic. Benji's primary interest in going to the wedding for the whole week, apart from appeasing his sister, is to spend time with Santino. The man is his idol. If Benji voluntarily tells a story from his youth without me prying it out of him with the jaws of life, it's going to involve Santino.

That hasn't stopped Benji from trying to backpedal his way out of this wedding when his anxiety spikes, though.

In the four days since I committed us to this, he's popped out of his office only three times: to ask if I really thought our parttime employee would be able to handle the store on her own for six days, to present me with a family tree—complete with pictures—to study (the Ferraros could be named the fertile-os for how many of them there are), and to inform me of the Unmentionables, which are the facts he doesn't want his family to learn about his personal life. Specifically, that he hasn't taken the bar exam and never will despite finishing law school, that he doesn't want kids, and that he's considering adding a PhD to his degree list for fun.

He pulls into one of the few empty spots and shifts into park.We leave it running for Tairn—who is safely tucked in his travel crate in the back—and venture toward the entrance of the resort to get our keys.

Cool air rushes out to greet us as we step inside the lobby, followed swiftly by a string of Italian swear words. I trace the source four feet to our left where a middle-aged woman yells at another middle-aged woman who looks like the copy-paste version of her. Their conversation is too fast and thickly accented for me to parse exactly what they're saying.

"Are they yelling at each other or with each other?" I whisper to Benji.

He spares them a fleeting glance. "At."

"Why would a woman call another woman a di"—I crinkle my nose—"Testa di cazzo . "

"Just ignore it," Benji grumbles, pulling at the center of his Baltimore Ravens shirt—worn not for the team, but for the mascot—as he casts a look at the crowded lobby. "Let's not linger in here. I don't want to get pulled into a million conversations before dinner."

I quicken my pace to keep up with him. The carpet is a swirl of red and gold, almost as though it's aflame. A large ornamental fox sits on the rough-hewn mantel of a stone fireplace, standing guard over the lobby's comings and goings.

A group of twenty or thirty people yell over one another near the check-in counter. A teenage girl has a teenage boy in a headlock. I recognize a few faces from Benji's meticulously crafted family tree.

To our right, another group of at least ten people I don't recognize speak in hushed tones. Their posture, as a whole, is more formal. They seem tense, like a coven of vampires who need to feed.

"Okay, so those chatty people by the counter are your family. Ferraros." I nod toward the huddle waiting to check in. "What about the group over to the right? You think that could be the groom's side?"

Benji glances over my head. "They look the part."

A woman with smooth, enviable hair and a classy wool coat from the coven catches my eye. I lift a hand to wave.

She does not return it.

"They seem like a barrel of laughs," I mutter, dropping my hand.

He dismisses this with a flick of his wrist. "Definitely the groom's side, then. The Mazzellis are notorious snobs. Don't take it personally."

"How do you know the groom's family?"

His gaze drifts like an ocean current, taking in the sea of people. "Our families have a history."

"You're going to have to give me a little more than that, Sugar Cheeks." I catch his eye. "I'm beta testing nicknames, do you like that one?"

A frown tugs at his lips. It looks as at home there as the trio of three small moles on his right cheek, which he calls his personal Bermuda triangle. "Benji is already a nickname. And the only acceptable one."

"Long live Benji, then." The bite of the air conditioning nips at my skin. It feels like it should be winter with all the dark accents and cold air in here. I nod toward the groom's family. "Now what's this history?"

"It's about a hundred years of bitterness, dating back to Umbria when we were all farmers in the Italian countryside. Their somebody or other accused our somebody or other of stealing sheep. Apparently it was a very big deal. The feud persisted when they came over together and settled here. Long Island may be big, but they've found ways to stay in one another's business and at one another's throats."

"Over sheep ? What is this, Catan?"

"It's exactly as absurd as it sounds." He sounds as bored as he usually does when discussing anything human drama adjacent.

"Why would they settle so close to one another, then?"

"Because Long Island was the place to be if you were an Italian immigrant in the 1920s, I guess." He stretches his arms overhead. His shirt is a little too small, or maybe his torso is a little too long. The move puts his flat, olive-toned stomach on display. "Anyway, hopefully the fact that a Ferraro is marrying a Mazzelli will put an end to the feud once and for all. Or, if the itinerary I was emailed has anything to say about it, it will end in bloodshed disguised as ‘friendly family pickleball.'"

"Pickleball?"

"It's one of the many activities scheduled this week. So many. The dinners have themes. It's atrocious." His expression is the same as when I try to recap my favorite shows for him before he's had his coffee.

"Themes? You know I love that kind of stuff—why didn't you tell me? I'm going to need you to forward me the itinerary immediately."

"No need. We can eat dinner in my room most nights. You can put on your shows while I work. Doesn't that sound nice?"

I frown. "It sounds like you're trying to weasel your way out of family meals. Not going to happen."

"We'll see about that." He gestures lazily over his shoulder. "I'm going to find the bathroom. You want to get in line? If you get to the counter before me, just check in for your room and I'll get mine after."

"The line has more people than the whole of Liechtenstein. I'm sure it won't come to that. Just don't get caught up in too many conversations on your way back."

"Believe me, I'll do my best." He lumbers off, casting a generous side-eye toward a woman wearing sleek Wayfarer sunglasses indoors and carrying a bottle of Dom Perignon in the crook of her arm.

I can already tell that's his must be a Mazzelli face and we've only just gotten here.

The lobby, which feels abundantly spacious with cedar beams running the length of the vaulted ceiling, is rapidly filling with even more people. These families took check in starts at three p.m . literally.

I take my spot at the end of the line behind a tall, seemingly athletic guy. His legs, I determine after a quick once-over, are Louvre-worthy art. Long, muscly without being bulky, and perfectly showcased in dressy shorts.

And that's just his legs. The Louvre would gladly accept the rest of him, too.

I force myself to dig out my phone so I don't ogle his back, or his arms, or his perfectly mussed hair. I'm a sucker for good hair, and his makes my palms itch.

Gaze glued to my phone, I fall down a deep internet rabbit hole of trying to figure out the origins of a famous couple's divorce. I've comfortably amassed enough evidence to take the wife's side when he turns sideways to stretch. The shape of his nose and lips, rise of his cheeks, and angle of his jaw triggers a snapshot memory. The recognition center of my brain lights up like a circuit board.

No freaking way.

Sebastian Rossi. AKA the Boys and Girls Club guy who has yet to return my email. It's been only a few days, but still.

Why is he here? In the Adirondacks?

I open my texts and scroll back in time. When I find the message he sent, my thumbs hover over the keyboard as I contemplate my play.

I'm in the market for a suitcase. Any recommendations?

He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and reads my text.

My pulse quickens as he starts to type.

That's an unexpected question from you, Ms. Manager.

The wind threatens to leave my sails. If he's calling me Ms. Manager, does that mean he didn't save my contact information?

I stay very still so as not to blow my nonexistent cover while I type my reply.

My exterminators call me Nora.

His shoulders shake a few times. His laugh is just enough that I can hear it over the commotion. At least I amuse him.

I know your name, Nora. And I'm no suitcase expert, but I guess it matters what you're using it for. Big or small? Hard or soft?

There's a joke in there that I'm not woman enough to make. So instead, I go for the kill.

I need something charcoal gray I can butcher to hell with stickers. Specifically band bumper stickers, like Death Cab for Cutie and Guster . But I also have a few Celebrations by El stickers that need a home, too.

Sebastian does a double take at the suitcase beside him, showcasing those exact stickers, before searching the room. When he finally turns around, his deep brown eyes flicker with recognition. "Whoa. Hi."

"Hi. Fancy meeting you here."

"Same to you." He rubs his jaw and stares at me in disbelief. "You didn't email after we talked. About the calendar."

I lift my brows. "I didn't?"

"Nope." His smile is wry. "I chalked it up to you secretly hating the Boys and Girls Club. No biggie."

I plant my hands on my hips. "Check your spam, sir."

He frowns and pokes at his phone. "Oh." His expression takes a turn for the chagrined. "My bad. I just assumed you were blowing me off."

"Nope. I figured I'd give it some time and follow up the old-fashioned way, with a carrier pigeon or singing telegram."

His laugh crinkles his eyes at the corners. "While there are plenty of pigeons in New York who could probably use the work, our office windows open only an inch."

"Telegram it is. You're about to make some hustling theater kid's day, Sebastian."

And there's his smile. I remember it the way you remember a particularly catchy song. His lips are a pleasing shape, his cupid's bow pronounced. He crosses his arms, the ink on his biceps slightly more visible today in the tight striped shirt he's wearing. I bury the impulse to push his sleeve to his shoulder and take a peek.

"And here I thought you'd be doing the singing," he says.

I lift a hand. "Trust me, no one wants that. My high notes would probably break glass."

"Great." He gives a solemn nod. "That would pave the way for the pigeons. Solves a lot of our problems."

How is he funny, too? Did Marvel central casting create this guy?

My heart pounds a little faster. I'm 99 percent sure this guy with his sports-ball physique and easy charm isn't interested in me, but that one percent is a powerful little beast. That one percent still wonders what he would've said to me in the store if we hadn't been interrupted.

Our gazes tangle for a few seconds too long. Heat slides through my body like a slow avalanche.

Correction: I'm only 50 percent sure he's not interested, and certain I want him to be.

It's been a long time since I've craved this. I haven't missed men in a tangible way since before I moved to New York. Since before my trainwreck of a situation with my last ex, if you can even call him that.

I've fallen recklessly hard for one man in my life. I was so deep in my unrequited feelings for Chase I could barely come up for air. To me, he was everything. To him, I was an invisible coworker for six months, and then his friend, and finally the mistake he quickly moved on from. I was eventually freed from that whole mess by relocation. It was the only one of my many moves I ever welcomed because it saved me from the depths of my own foolishness.

He isn't the only guy I've been involved with, but he was the one who hurt the most. I had many almosts with men before him, situations that started fine enough but never broke through to an actual relationship. Sex with no feelings, feelings with no sex, false starts that fizzled out after a date or two.

Feelings and sex with Chase did some damage. It left its mark. I'm not eager to experience that again. I don't let myself get interested. Not deeply. And I won't until a man matches my interest. The art of "declaring one's intentions" needs reviving if you ask me.I want a guy to look at me and say I'm getting to know you with purpose. I intend to date you exclusively. Those lines would go straight to my head like good champagne.

I want to be claimed. To be someone's person. I crave the safety that comes when two people fully belong to each other.

Not that I've experienced it.

Two men in line in front of us who are distantly related to Benji start shouting loudly about Italian wedding tradition. One of their gesticulating arms whacks the back of Sebastian's head. Sebastian lurches forward, his chest nearly smashing into mine.

We were standing closer than I realized. My smile falls away.

Crap. Benji .

Smiling at Sebastian is not at all what I need to be doing while waiting for my fake boyfriend to come back. It's hard to imagine anyone is paying attention to us—it's like a cut scene from Home Alone in here, McCallisters take the Adirondacks —but I don't want to mess up my first hour on the job by talking to another guy or huddling over our phones like we're exchanging numbers. Appearances are everything.

The humor slips off Sebastian's face as he side-eyes Benji's family. He's probably afraid they're going to bludgeon him with a rogue elbow next.

I take a small step backward. "Well thanks, I'll—"

"It smells like the inside of a camper van in here." A Jennifer Lawrence doppelganger almost Sebastian's height falls into place at his side, cheeks pink like she's been standing in the sun. She wraps a possessive hand around the handle of the sticker-covered suitcase. "The grounds are picturesque, though. Ugh, the line still hasn't moved?"

Sebastian straightens, clasping a hand to the back of his neck. "Not much. Guess we'll die here."

My brain scrambles to play catch-up.

The woman's black shift dress is loose and short, barely hitting halfway down her toned thighs. Her striking features, fierce red hair pulled into a sleek, high ponytail, and dramatic, colorful jewelry scream effortlessly cool . "I just had an entire phone conversation with work and you're somehow farther from the check-in counter than when you started." Her attention snags on me and she brightens. "Oh, hi there!" She pauses and unabashedly scans me from head to toe. "Cool boots."

Sebastian jumps in. "Alessia, this is Nora. She works at a bookstore in Great River."

"Nice to meet you, Nora." Her fingers land on Sebastian's elbow and drift up the back of his arm. "Are you here for the wedding?"

My breath catches like a hangnail on a sweater.

I had no idea he was taken.Disappointment brands my skin with heat.

"Wedding," I say, my pulse tripping over itself. "Yes. Ferraro-Mazzelli."

"The two-for-one Italian special, eh?" Alessia's grin is as lovely as the rest of her, but her catlike eyes are really alluring. Remarkable how hot people always find each other in the wild. "It should be a great week, so long as none of these people murder one another."

The crowd seems to dial up the bitter noise all at once, as if taking Alessia's statement as a suggestion.

"Right," I say, avoiding Sebastian's eye. "Totally."

Benji swoops in on my left, triggering a jump-scare. "I'm back. Oh no, my dad is at the counter."

I blink up at him. "Huh?"

"My dad," he repeats louder, oblivious that anyone but me is listening. At a staggering six feet four, Benji's got two or three inches on Sebastian, who leans back to avoid Benji's arm. "See him up there? He's probably ruining that desk woman's life with special requests and requirements for his room. There are hotels across America and Italy that fear the name Ferraro. And one of my aunts is behind him, and she doesn't even speak English. We're never getting out of this lobby."

Sebastian's thick brows furrow as he studies Benji. "Wait, I remember you. You work at the bookstore, too." He offers a hand. "I'm Sebastian Rossi."

"Benjamino Ferraro." Benji is the first to pull away from the handshake. "I own the store. Bought it two years ago."

"It's a great spot. I didn't realize it was a family-run place." Sebastian's gaze flits between us as he props his hands on his hips. "Are you two cousins or something? Siblings?"

If Benji and I are giving off sibling energy, this week is doomed.

Benji's timid gaze meets mine for a few seconds. "We aren't related. That would be weird, since Nora is my girlfriend." He scratches his chin, turning back to Sebastian. "We weren't dating when I hired her, for what it's worth. It was all aboveboard. I'm the owner, so I guess that makes me HR, and I say it's fine."

Every word out of his mouth sounds more pained than the last. I didn't think he'd flounder with something as simple as an introduction. I should've known this introvert couldn't just extrovert himself at will like a human pop socket.

Sebastian's eyes drift back to me, curious. "Girlfriend?"

"Yup." I attempt a chill, not-at-all forced smile on behalf of the both of us as I snake my arm around Benji's waist.

He gives my head three hard pats.

How romantic.

"Benjamino!" Veronica waves from across the lobby. She approaches us like a fish darting toward a sprinkling of food. "And Nora ! Sorry, I didn't see you there behind all these tall people."

Sebastian steps aside to make room for Veronica, guiding Alessia two feet away to whisper in her ear.

Veronica wraps her cold hands around mine. "How was your trip up?"

I smile as wide as my cheeks will allow. "It was great. Benji drove the whole way. Is Rosalina here yet? I'd love to say hello."

"She's busy unloading her whole life into a hotel room. So many accessories when you're the bride! You'll see when it's your turn." Her sneaky smile is all lips and no teeth, showcasing coral lipstick. "Soon enough, right?"

The question does not sound rhetorical.

"Let's not pressure her," Benji warns. "She might get spooked and leave. Nora, are you feeling spooked? Be honest. We can go." His pointed stare suggests let's go is the only thing he's interested in hearing.

I shoot him a quelling look.

Veronica's face is pure mirth as she extends her arms toward her son. "She doesn't look spooked in the slightest. Now come here and give Mamma V a hug. I'm glad to see you. You know, for a while there, I was worried you'd miss this. You're always so busy ."

Benji sighs, relaxing into her hug. "Wouldn't want to miss Rosalina's big day."

When they're finished, Veronica captures me in an equally enthusiastic squeeze, cloaking me in her sweet, syrupy perfume. Her voice is low and warm in my ear. "It's such a joy to have you here, honey."

My stomach swoops. "Thank you, Veronica."

Her hands clasp beneath her chin. "Call me Mamma V. Most people do."

I beam at this. "I'm grateful you were able to make room for me, Mamma V."

"Make room for you?" Her smoky laugh fills the air. "You're not a turkey in the fridge, silly girl. You're going to be included in everything! Rosalina rearranged the seating chart for the big meals so you're both at the same table as the bridal party."

My hand moves to my chest as the line shifts forward. "She did?"

Mamma V levels me with an unblinking stare. "I'm confused. Did she not text you? She said she asked Benjamino for your number."

My blood pressure ticks up a notch as Benji clears his throat. "Oh, did I not give Rosalina your number? I meant to."

Great . Now the bride thinks we're ignoring her.

"That's okay," Mamma V insists. "We have full access to you now that you're here! Have you gotten your room yet? We're on floor four. Maybe we're neighbors."

"We haven't gotten our rooms yet. We're still waiting." Benji swings his arm toward the long line for emphasis, almost clotheslining Alessia from the side. Judging by how fast she reacted, she was paying attention. Can't say I blame her; Mamma V is a one-woman show. One that I hate to admit I'm enjoying, because that feels like a betrayal of Benji proportions.

"Rooms?" Mamma V cocks her head to the side, her black bob swinging. "You mean room?"

His mouth opens and closes. Twice. "I— Well, we were, uh… Nora?"

Time takes a stuttering breath.

I eye the crucifix dangling over Mamma V's ample cleavage. "Uh— I wanted my own room, out of respect for the family. With us being unmarried."

" Oh . Well, that's unnecessary. You're welcome to share and enjoy your trip." Mamma V drops to a near whisper. "The good lord and everyone else know Benjamino is over thirty years old and has needs."

I look up at Benji, seeing my own horror reflected in his eyes. I could live a thousand lives and it'd still be too soon to hear Benji's mother discuss his needs and how welcome I am to meet them.

Benji glances at his watch and then surveys the room, the universal symbol for how swiftly can I end this? "Hey, Dad seems to be lost. Maybe he's looking for you?"

Mamma V rolls her eyes. "He's been ‘lost' since our wedding day. Lost in the kitchen when it's time to cook, lost in the garden when it's time to mow, lost in every room, really. Better go find him before he acts up. I'll see you two tonight. Dress code is upscale casual!"

As soon as she's out of earshot, I whistle softly and fist my hands on my hips. " Upscale and casual are antonyms—"

"I told you she was on another level, Nora." Benji massages his temples. "Did I not tell you? My needs ? Who says stuff like that? This is too much. And she's going to immediately tell my sister and everyone else about the separate rooms, which will draw sus—"

"Whoa. Benji ." He's about to blow our cover and it hasn't even been an hour. My gaze darts to Sebastian, and then away from him just as quickly when I catch him watching us. I guide Benji into a cold, uncomfortable embrace so no one can hear what I say next. "It's fine. She's excited, but she'll calm down when she gets used to me. We'll get one room and one of our cots can go in the bathroom or entryway or something. Cool your jets, please."

"What about my mother suggests she's capable of calming down? She's chill only when she's asleep or sedated!"

I sigh and release him. "Do you want to be sedated? Because I've got Ambien and you can go lie—"

"I think we should bail. If we leave now, we can make it back in time for Jeopardy . Then we'll phase this thing out."

I try to body block him, as if it'll stop people from hearing our conversation. Notably Sebastian and Alessia, who at this point aren't even pretending not to eavesdrop. With Benji's volume, there's no point in pretending.

The line lurches forward, and Benji barely moves with it until I stare daggers at his face. He takes a small step.

I promised him I'd get him through the week and keep his family off his back so he could spend time with his grandfather and support Rosalina, and that requires keeping him here. Sure, feigning coupledom has seemed to result in even more attention on us—at least for now—but that'll dwindle the longer we're here. It has to.

And if it doesn't, it's just for a few days. As soon as we're back, Benji will re-cocoon himself like a reverse butterfly, and he can tell them we've broken up when he so chooses.

In the meantime, we're doing what we came here to do. He'll be glad we stayed, even if he doesn't see it now. His Nonno Santino isn't getting any younger and his sister isn't getting any less married. A brother doesn't just miss a sister's wedding week. If I had a sibling, I wouldn't miss a single occasion of theirs for the world.

Time to use the same strategy I used when he refused to see a doctor for what ended up being a hernia that needed medical attention. Wear him down . "You spent all that time on the illustrated family tree and we're just going to bail? All that ink from the printer wasted on colored headshots. Poppycock. I studied and memorized generations of Ferraros, Benjamino . Let me show off that knowledge."

He groans. "Nora—"

I drive a finger into his chest. "Trust me. If you leave now, you'll regret it. Who was right about your hernia?"

"You. You wouldn't let it go until I went to the ER." His frown deepens, and his tone takes on a rare sincerity. "Why are you so good to me? You really should replace me with nicer friends."

"Nah. Your grumpy ass sends the best memes."

"I am a meme curator first and a human second." He sighs. "What the hell kind of word is poppycock, anyway?"

"A terrible one. Why don't you text Santino? See if he wants to get a drink after we get our keys. Blow off some steam."

He eyes the exit, his decision hanging in the balance.

And if the disappointment that floods me at the idea of leaving and missing Rosalina's big week and all the shenanigans to come is any indication, I'm already committed to staying.But as I turn and catch the look of deep skepticism etched on Sebastian's face, it seems we may have a more immediate problem than Benji's indecision.