My Big Fat Fake Honeymoon

“Understood.” I dip my chin in agreement and we both stand. He hands me the check, and I fold it, placing it in my chest pocket without looking at it. The amount doesn’t matter, though I’ll need it to get by for the next few weeks while I figure out what the hell I’m going to do now. The point is that Sergio and I are good, two men in a bad situation because of one woman.

He holds out a hand and I look at it carefully. “Still no, man. I know you haven’t washed your hands.”

He shrugs with a small hint of a sad smile. “I will miss your fettuccine, Lorenzo. If you need a recommendation anywhere, feel free to use my name. I will gladly tell anyone about your culinary skills.”

An exceedingly kind gesture, all things considered, but I don’t think I’ll be risking that recommendation. What if a potential employer got Valentina on the line? She’d paint a most unflattering picture of me, I’m sure.

“There are several more servings of fettuccine in the kitchen, already prepped for service. Grab one of those before they’re gone.”

With that, I walk through the kitchen of Avanti for the last time. I shake hands with Roberta and wave at the rest of the guys on the line. They offer a small applause and call out, “Bye, Chef!” like they have so many nights before.

Tonight, when I climb on my motorcycle and fly down the road, I have no destination in mind. I simply feel free, the wind rushing against my body as I drive too fast, my knives in my pack and armed with the knowledge that I could go anywhere right now.

Anywhere I want—to start fresh, to learn something new, to meet new people.

So why do I end up driving by SweetPea Boutique and feeling let down at the dark interior?Chapter 23Abi“I’d like to raise a toast to my daughter, the magnificently talented Abi Andrews,” my dad, Morgan, says as he lifts a glass of scotch.

“We really are so proud of you, dear,” my mom, Kimberly, echoes as she lifts her wine.

Ross and Courtney lift their drinks, and I do the same, feeling a flush of pride at Dad’s praise.

We sip our drinks and set them back on the white tablecloth-covered table at the country club.

Dad called this family meeting tonight to celebrate as soon as his press alert popped up with my name.

“Abi, line one’s for you. It’s your Dad,” Samantha yells across the shop. She did a great job while Janey and I were gone, really showing her stuff by managing the shop and the arrangements. Janey might have some competition as my right-hand girl, except that Janey’s a brutal bitch who’ll cut a girl if Samantha gets a big head.

With a grin, I answer, “Thanks! I’ve got it.”

“Hello.”

“Abi, got an alert on you. Thankfully, good news . . . this time,” Dad says. I can hear the creak of his chair as he leans back, relaxing at the office for a moment before he starts the next thing on his never-ending to-do list.

“Thanks, Dad,” I say with a smile, sitting on a stool at my work table. The parallel strikes me—Dad at his office and me at mine, his desk likely neat and organized while mine is strewn with blooms that I’m arranging into a lovely custom piece for a customer.

I keep messing with the flowers aimlessly as he reads off the dry alert he received. He set them up on Ross, Courtney, and me when we were kids and added Violet, Carly, and Kaede when they joined the family. Unfortunately, the alerts have been bad news more often than good, especially with Ross’s younger tabloid-worthy days. Luckily, those are far behind him and us.

“We’re celebrating tonight, and I won’t take no for an answer. Your mother’s already made reservations at the club for seven o’clock.”

“Uh, okay. Sure, Dad.” I can’t say no to him, even though what I really want to do tonight is go home, curl into a burrito inside a fluffy blanket, and stare at bad reality television until I fall asleep. Alone.

The quiet hum of the fancy country club dining room brings me back to the here and now, as does Dad’s deep voice. “So, pretend I’m an old, out of touch sort and explain to me again how this helps you,” Dad says with a light chuckle.

I take a big breath, knowing that while Dad’s joking and is definitely not that clueless, he’s not particularly social media savvy. “Claire’s a huge online personality with a lot of pull, like millions-of-followers type of influence. She posted an album’s worth of wedding photos, tagging vendors from the event like the resort, the wedding planner, the bridal gown designer, and the florist.” I frame my smiling face with my hands because that’d be me.