Thunderstruck (Providence Family Ties 3) - Page 25
Something flickered in his eyes, and then it was gone. “How’d the date go?”
I felt the first genuine grin in hours split across my face. “Really good. I set up a fort with Bronte’s teepee in the living room and finally used those blankets and candles Mom insisted on putting everywhere. Addy’s a pretty cool woman, you know? She makes everything easy.”
He nodded. “Saw that, too. I’m glad you guys found each other again, Marcus.” Before I could say anything, he asked, “How convenient is it that she can do her job anywhere?”
It was. I was fascinated by Addy’s career as it was, and the fact she could do it from home meant our schedules would be easier to balance. We’d touched on the topic last night, and with my hours being long and starting early in the morning, some people might have problems being able to weave that kind of workday around a relationship—even a budding one.
It would be relatively easy for us, with her working when I was working or us being able to take an hour to have lunch together a couple of days a week. She also wouldn’t feel neglected or bored if she stayed at my house because she lived so close and, at her own admission, spent way too many hours a day working as it was, just like I did.
Maybe we’d balance each other out?
Seeing an email that needed an urgent response, I got sucked into work, not coming up for air until my phone pinged.
Addy: Nonna wants to know if you’d like to come over for dinner?
Checking the time and seeing it was already four o’clock, I answered.
Me: She doesn’t have a hot date tonight?
Addy: Maybe it’s tapioca night at the retirement home?
Her reply made me chuckle.
Me: Then I’d love to. What time?
I should have asked who was going to be there, but with everything going on, the distraction of both Addy and work dominating my brain, I didn’t.
“Lorenzo, stop looking knives at the poor boy,” Mrs. V snapped at her son as she passed me the breadbasket and making Addy groan. “I apologize for son of mine, Marcus. He drink wine from young age. Always sneaking bottles of red, not milk.”
“That doesn’t even make any sense, Nonna,” Addy hissed, clenching her hands into fists. “Why must you continue pretending you struggle with English when you probably speak it better than I do?”
To sum it up, the only people not irritated or pissed about something were me and Putri, her mom.
“Anyway, as I was saying,” Putri said loudly, ignoring the tension opposite us, “I’ve never ridden on a horse.”
I’d just opened my mouth to invite her to come up to the ranch when her husband snapped, “Fuck no, and a definite fuck no with that guy.”
Yep, I was ‘that guy’ now. At least it wasn’t ‘chump’ like I’d been when he came in and saw me sitting at the table set up in the garden for dinner and had asked, “What’s that chump doing here?”
I liked to consider it progress.
Putri had a magical power because she didn’t even blink or twitch and just continued talking. “Are they easy to ride?”
“Some of them are,” I told her truthfully. “Some of them aren’t. We train our horses to obey commands and be good with humans so they’re okay to ride, though.”
It was on the tip of my tongue to add, “if you’re interested,” but I wasn’t sure Lorenzo wouldn’t throw the fork in his hand at my head.
Some men might see it as a sign they weren’t meant to be with the man’s daughter, but I had Townsend blood in my veins—we didn’t back down for anyone.
“You’re very young to own a business like that,” Putri noted, tilting her head as she thought about it.
“I am,” I admitted, “but it was my dream from when I was a teenager, so I’ve spent years working on it. My mom also says I was born a thirty-year-old, so that might have something to do with it.” Seeing her grin, I felt a bit better about the embarrassment I always felt when someone said that. “I have a twin brother, Jackson, who’s the same, but my family swears I’m more serious than he is, even though he just got married six months ago.”
Putri lifted a shoulder as she scooped risotto onto her fork, all of her movements dainty. “I got married at twenty to Lorenzo. Then again, if he doesn’t stop running that knife between his fingers, I’ll be getting divorced at forty-eight.”
As the words sank in, I chanced a glance at him, and sure enough, he had the bread knife in his hand.
“He won’t stab the blade,” Mrs. V murmured, scooping rice onto a piece of homemade ciabatta. “Lorenzo has no tennis balls for altercations such as that.”
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