Real Fake Love Page 4

  “She’s my cat.”

  “I can see that, but what’s she wearing?”

  “She felt like a unicorn today.”

  More mutters.

  He thrusts his hands through his hair, then points at the door. “Get inside.”

  Yes! “You’ll help me?”

  “Yes. I’ll help you not get murdered by wandering lost in the city after midnight, looking for a hotel where you won’t propose to the clerk on sight, and tomorrow, I’ll help you by getting you on your way back to your mother’s pool house, and then I’m going to help myself by getting very, very drunk and forgetting any of this happened.”

  I beam at him.

  Because while this is currently a no for everything I’m asking, he’s not kicking me out yet.

  I still have a chance. I also make some mean breakfast waffles, which may be exactly the reason two of my proposals happened.

  Not that I’m looking for a proposal.

  The exact opposite, actually. And I’m willing to be ruthless in making him waffles to get what I need to have a happy rest of my life, if need be.

  I’m also not falling madly in love with him, despite what those initial tingles made me fear, so maybe I need to soak up some of these grumpy vibes, and then everything will be absolutely perfect.

  All I need is an excuse to stay a smidge longer.

  And probably to figure out what I can do to pay him back for the favor.

  Watch out, world. Henri Bacon has a plan.

  5

  Luca

  The next morning, I swim into consciousness to the smell of tomatoes, oregano, sausage, cheese, and doom.

  It takes me a few minutes of staring up at my wobbly ceiling fan and listening to the birds outside my open window before full understanding of the doom part registers, and when it hits, it hits hard.

  I leap up, dance into my boxer briefs, and fly out of the room after opening my door.

  Why is my door closed?

  Better question—how long has doom been here cooking if the smell has invaded my room despite the lack of airflow?

  I thunder down the stairs, leaping past the bottom step by instinct after living in this house long enough to have tripped on the sag in it six times already, spin, and dart through the torn-apart living room and into the shithole known as the kitchen.

  And fuuuuuuuuuck.

  It’s true.

  She’s here.

  “Don’t think words like that around me, young man.” Nonna shakes a tomato sauce-covered spoon at me. “And what in the hell is wrong with this stove? I had to use a damn match to get the burner to light, and that oven’s so small it won’t fit a potato, let alone a casserole dish. But at least you put clothes on. Minimal as they may be. Thank you.”

  I stand there, staring dumbly at my grandmother at the stovetop, trying to not think more curse words.

  Even the ones she taught me.

  My Nonna isn’t tall, but what she lacks in stature, she makes up in being an Italian grandmother.

  And on any day when she’s not baking ziti for breakfast in my kitchen, she’s the coolest grandmother on the planet.

  But that casserole dish—and yes, I mean her casserole dish, the special casserole dish, the one that’s been in the family for generations, and will be passed on to whoever can master the eye as effectively as my grandmother, and her grandmother before her, and her grandmother before her—that casserole dish says that she’s about to bury me in a Nonna mess unlike any I’ve ever seen.

  I am so fucked.

  She gives me the eye again. I mean, not The Eye, but the I heard that fuck in your head, young man eye. “You didn’t take my calls.”

  “I was working.”

  “You play for a living.”

  “I get paid. It’s work.”

  “You don’t play twenty-four hours a day. If I didn’t have the television set with that sports package, I’d think you were dead. What kind of grandmother has to wait for a baseball game to start to make sure her grandson isn’t dead? What if you didn’t play that day? Then how would I know if you were dead?”

  “I’m sure someone would think to call you eventually.” I fold my arms like my heart isn’t racing and I’m not sweating buckets, and no, that’s not the lack of air conditioning in mid-August talking. I never sweat like this in my own house.

  Her blue eyes twinkle. “There’s no room for sass here this morning, Luca Antonio Rossi. You know why I’m here.”

  No.

  Nope.

  Not falling for this.

  Or possibly I’m in denial, because I don’t have time to get Eyed. “Because you promised your TikTok followers we’d do the Gel?” Yeah, I’m reaching. I’m reaching for anything I can to delay getting Eyed.

  “Please. Like you can Gel like me.” She slides around the table crammed into the awkward space, busting a move and threading her fingers through her rainbow unicorn hair in the dance craze she started online last month.

  My grandmother has taken on a new hobby, and she’s now TikTok Nonna.

  And it turns out, raising four kids and having nine grandkids and all that practice being a badass as an airline pilot and traveling all over the world for thirty years at a time when women pilots were rare makes her the next best thing to Betty White as far as the next generation of social media video platform users go. All the kids who used to get on the video screen at ballparks across the nation to do the Dab or the Floss or the Hype are now doing my Nonna’s Gel.

  She swings her hips while she slides around the table, thrusting her fingers through her hair like she’s putting in hair gel with every step, and stops when she’s next to me. “Plus, I’m a bigger TikTok star than you are.”

  That’s true enough, especially since my social media presence is minimal and run by someone at my agent’s office. I lift a hand for a high-five, hoping we can Gel our way out of what she’s cooking.

  “I don’t high-five grandsons who send my calls to voicemail.” She flicks a green-tipped fingernail to the sink. “Dishes won’t do themselves.”

  Is this my house? Yes.

  Am I going to argue with my grandmother when she’s here to put The fucking Eye on me? No.

  She glides back to her casserole dish. “I can hear you thinking, and your language is atrocious today.”

  I flip on the faucet and remind myself that if I grind my teeth all the way to their roots, I’ll end up saddled with the kind of woman who’s into that sort of thing. “I’m sorry I worried you,” I grunt to Nonna.

  “You should be. You can’t get over what’s bothering you if you don’t talk to anyone about it.”

  “Nothing’s bothering me.”

  “Then why aren’t you returning my phone calls?”

  I test the water, then nudge the tap to the left to get the hot water flowing. Scalding myself is preferable to listening to the lecture I’ve earned. “I’m not ignoring your phone calls.”

  “You’re not returning them either.”

  “We were traveling. It was loud.”

  “For a month.”

  “I’m playing for a team that didn’t understand they were supposed to hit the baseballs when they were up to bat a year ago, and now we’re in a position to make the playoffs. There’s extra commitment involved in something this historic.”

  “And this has nothing whatsoever to do with all the sports channels talking about that interview you did after your wedding all over again?”

  My shoulders bunch.

  “Your agent must love that,” she says to the ziti, but we both know she knows I can hear her.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “The getting to know the new Fireballs series on that sports channel. What’s it called?”

  She taps her foot while she thinks.

  I’m so fucked.

  It’s not even The Eye.

  It’s my career. My dream.

  This team?

  The last thing I expected when I moved here in Januar
y was that I’d want to stay so bad, no matter what happens at the end of the season.

  These guys? They’re my brothers in a way no other team has been. The fans? Jesus. You know what it’s like to start a season being told your home stadium will be lucky to be half-full at any given game, only to be halfway through August with sold-out crowds every day?

  I even love the damn mascots, though that firefly contender is weird as hell. Something about him bothers me. Maybe it’s the extra arms. Or the wings.

  But most likely, it’s that big-ass bubble growing out of its butt.

  And Nonna’s telling me I’m about to be a PR disaster for them.

  While she gives me The Eye.

  “Tea and baseball pants!” She thrusts her spoon in the air, sending a saucy chunk of pasta sailing across the room. “That’s the sports channel.”

  “A gossip site?”

  “It’s on the YouTubes.”

  Jesus. I thought she was talking about ESPN. I said some bad shit after I broke it off with Emily, and while my agent can sweep old crap under the rug, it’s not what any of us need to worry about right now.

  Also, I know damn well she knows it’s not the YouTubes.

  She’s here to mess with me.

  “We have six weeks to go until the end of the season. We’re on the cusp of making the playoffs. Don’t do this, Nonna. Don’t do this now.”

  “It’s time, Luca Antonio. The stars told me so, and the stars are never wrong.”

  “We’re this close.”

  “And you need to give up all of your preconceived notions of love and accept that the universe needs you to find the one.”

  “If she’s the one, she’ll have to understand the sacrifices involved.”

  “That’s nonsense. You’re a grown man. It’s time you act like one.”

  “Says the woman with the unicorn hair. Ah!”

  Something hot, sticky, and gooey lands in my ear.

  Something like a damn clump of ziti fixings.

  There’s too much of it to stay in my ear, so now it’s dribbling down my bare shoulder and chest and onto the floor, which I can’t mop too much because the linoleum is cracked, and I’ll damage the subfloor and have to replace that too.

  I’m usually further into renovation projects at this point in the season, but I’m not usually enjoying being part of a team as much as I’m enjoying being a Fireball this year.

  Dammit, I hope they don’t trade me.

  But with my track record—it’s only a matter of time.

  You could say commitment and I don’t go together anywhere.

  I bend over the sink, glaring at my grandmother while I rinse out the cursed food.

  She lifts a brow. “I could’ve set your hair on fire.”

  “Not if you want a good Christmas present,” I grumble.

  “Luca, how many women have you dated?”

  I straighten, turn off the water, and grab a towel to dry my ear and face. “Don’t you have to bake the ziti before we get started with you shriveling my nuts?”

  Shut up, Rossi. SHUT. UP.

  “Your oven isn’t heating fast enough.” She thumps the wall oven, which looks like a double-oven, but is actually the world’s smallest oven with the world’s largest broiler.

  “It’s an antique,” I hear myself say. “Works better if you light a wood fire in the broiler.”

  She frowns at the oven.

  Frowns bigger at me.

  Her eyes start to narrow, and I am not ready for this.

  My cousin Louie got the Eye put on him, and he was married to Isabella within two months. My cousin Joe? Seven months to a pregnant bride. Alonzo? He told Nonna to go to hell, and three days later, he was in a full body cast in the hospital.

  Alonzo’s an accountant. He drives a Volvo with a crucifix hanging from the rearview mirror, takes Fiber One every morning at breakfast, collects stamps, and has a YouTube channel where he discusses the ins and outs of button manufacturing.

  For fun.

  The only brave thing he’s ever done in his entire life is to tell Nonna to go to hell when she put the Eye on him.

  He slipped in his tub and broke every bone in his body while replacing his shower curtain hooks three days later.

  I went to his wedding to one of his nurses the next Christmas. Under protest, for the record, but I went like I’ve gone to every one of my cousins’ weddings.

  Don’t tell me The Eye isn’t powerful.

  And I play baseball for a living. Do you know how many opportunities there are for broken bones, torn groins, and balls to the head—not to mention freak bat accidents—every single day?

  I shower naked with twenty other men on a regular basis.

  I am not getting The Eye.

  “Nonna, this isn’t necessary.”

  “Oh, I think it is.”

  “It—Jesus.”

  I leap, because something furry brushes my leg, and I don’t own furry.

  Except—fuck on a fuck sandwich.

  I have a houseguest.

  I have a female houseguest. Who needs to leave. Now. Without Nonna seeing her.

  “Luca Antonio,” Nonna growls, and I don’t know if it’s for the Jesus out loud or the fucks in my head.

  But I’ll keep both of them, thank you very much.

  Henri’s cat—dressed in a bunny outfit—has plopped her ass down beside my foot and is lying on her side while she licks at the bits of ziti that fell off my ear.

  And I’m getting an awful idea.

  An awful, terrible, horrible, I’ll-probably-get-a-concussion-and-end-my-baseball-career-for-this idea. In fact, it’s such an awful idea, I give myself idea whiplash.

  “Can you give me a few months before we do The Eye?” I hiss. “I don’t want to freak out Henri.”

  I am going to hell.

  In my own house.

  Probably within the next five minutes.

  Nonna folds her arms. “If you think claiming to be gay is going to stop me, look what happened to your cousin Tony when I put the Eye on him.”

  Right. Happily married to Tom, his former neighbor-enemy, and adopting twin girls that were left between their apartment doors approximately six hours after The Eye happened.

  “Henrietta,” I correct.

  I can do this. I can tell Nonna that I’m dating Henri, and then she heard about The Eye, freaked, and ran away.

  And then I can kick Henri out.

  It’s brilliant.

  Or possibly desperate.

  “Yes, love?” Like a demon summoned from the Underworld, the woman herself pops into the kitchen.

  She’s in a pink tank top without a bra—fuuuuuck me—and short shorts decorated with pandas above her skinny legs. Her hair’s a mess of short brown curls sticking up at all angles under a backwards baseball cap, her cheeks are rosy, and her breasts jiggle while she bounce-steps the seven paces into the kitchen to join me at the sink, where she wraps her arms around my waist while she goes up on tiptoe to lick the ziti off my shoulder. “Mm, breakfast.”

  I almost recoil at the unexpected touch, except I can’t, because Nonna needs to believe this.

  Also, I need to put some clothes on.

  Henri needs to put some clothes on.

  I need to catch up real quick on why Henri’s hugging me, but first, I need to be grateful.

  Except Nonna is not impressed.

  “Luca, are you going to introduce me to your guest?”

  Gone is TikTok Nonna with a sparkle in her eye and a groove in her step, and in her place is the formidable head of an Italian crime organization.

  Not that we’re into crime in our family. It’s more that she can channel it.

  “Henri, this is Nonna. My grandmother. Nonna, this is Henri.”

  Henri claps her hands. “Oh my gosh! This is the best. Hi, Nonna. I love your hair.”

  Crime Boss Nonna doesn’t take the bait. “What are your intentions toward my grandson?”

  “She’s—” I start,
but Henri suddenly squeals.

  “I know you! You’re TikTok Nonna! Luca. You didn’t tell me you were related to TikTok Nonna!” She swats playfully at my arm. “And I even wore my TikTok Nonna shirt yesterday, and you didn’t say a word.”

  “Considering how much you haven’t enjoyed meeting the rest of my family…”

  “She’s met your parents?” Nonna’s bright eyes dart to mine. Then back to Henri, whose smile has faltered, but who’s now gazing at me with the same calculated look Nonna was wearing a minute ago.

  Babe Ruth on a bundt cake, does every woman secretly aspire to be a mob boss?

  “Just his mom,” Henri answers smoothly.

  I swallow hard. My life is about to spiral out of control. “Mom was…an unexpected participant in breaking up Henri’s wedding earlier this summer.”

  Henri digs a nail into my hip while her grip around my waist tightens. “Luca and I bonded over the wedding cake while he comforted me afterwards. He was such a gentleman about the whole thing, so I came out here to thank him once I’d collected myself, and one thing led to another, and now…”

  She shrugs.

  “Like I said,” I tell Nonna, unsure if I’m supposed to be grateful or terrified that Henri’s riding out this lie with me. “It’s awkward.”

  Henri tilts her head against my chest. She smells like imitation coconut and sweat, and it’s warm enough in the kitchen that her cheek is now stuck to my bare skin, and that’s gonna make a noise when we separate.

  “Hm.” Nonna’s gaze flits between us while she picks up the family heirloom casserole dish and carries it to my oven. “Good thing you have a guest room then.”

  My blood runs cold. “For…?”

  “For me to move into. Henri, dear, you’re going to need all the help you can get with this one. He’s stubborn as a mule.”

  “Nonna—”

  “Oh my gosh, that’s so sweet of you!” Henri peels herself off me—and yeah, there’s some stretching skin, because I don’t have a working air conditioner, and the oven’s heating up now, which means we’ll all be roasted like a chicken dinner within about ten minutes—and she launches herself at Nonna. “I’ll have to clear my things out. Luca’s been so kind, letting me use his guest bedroom as my office. I mean, I guess I can work in the living room…?”