Caught Up in You (8 page)

“Wait a minute,” I say, when they finally pull apart. “
This
is your cousin?”

The girl nods, an adorable jubilant smile lighting up her face like a Christmas tree.

“Hey Blake,” Lia offers a friendly greeting. “How are you?”

But I don’t return it. Because my mind is still reeling from the implication. “As in
blood
related?” I confirm.

The girl giggles. “Yes. Her father is my father’s brother.”

The floor suddenly drops out from under my feet. This can’t be happening. Of all the girls in all the fucking world.

“So that would make you a...a…Smart?” I ask, still hoping this is all a terrible dream. Or just a really bad joke.

I have the distinct feeling that Lia is following my train of thought. “This is Emma Smart. She’s from the British side of the family.” She turns to her cousin. “This is Blake Thomas. He used to work for me.”

Despite the change in circumstances, I’m grateful that she left out the
other
details of our history. 

Emma extends her hand and I stand there speechless and stunned for a moment before my brain kicks into gear and I reach out to shake it. “Nice to meet you,” I mumble, but the words feel stiff and swollen on my tongue.

“Blake’s offered to take me on a tour of the town,” Emma says brightly, beaming toward Lia.

Lia’s gaze meets mine. She raises her eyebrows and flashes me a conspiratorial smile that would put James Bond to shame. “That doesn’t surprise me at all.”

THE END

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Prologue

Lia

No one ever tells you the truth about love. It’s a massive conspiracy and the entire world is in on it.

They make love look like a brochure for a tropical island vacation. All gentle breezes and warm waters and happy endings tied up with string.  

But in reality, it’s not like that at all.

It’s not quiet and safe and blissful. Or picturesque like a sunset on a postcard wishing you were here.

Love is an earthquake.  It comes when you least expect it. It shakes your foundation to the core. It rips the ground clear away.

Right out from under you.

Everyone lies about love. Everyone hides the messiness away, sweeps it under the rug, and then paints it over with an idyllic portrait to fool you into thinking their life belongs on a movie screen.

But I’m not going to do that.

Some stories are just too big to be swept under the rug. They deserve the truth. The
whole
truth. No matter how imperfect it is. No matter how much debris and devastation are exposed to the world.

Some stories simply have to be told.

One

Lia

“The confetti is too much. Do you think the confetti is too much?”

I take a sip from my wine glass and study the table from another angle. The small four-top in the back corner of the restaurant is set for three people and decorated with plastic Italian vines, a vase of white lilies, and gold shimmery confetti strewn across the deep red tablecloth.

The 2007 Sangiovese that I spent an hour selecting from the restaurant’s wine cellar is sitting unopened in the center. I snatch it up, shaking my head adamantly. “No, the wine is all wrong. I’m going to look for something else.”

Blake catches my wrist as I turn to go, carefully easing the bottle out of my iron fist. “Lia, the wine is fine. The confetti looks great. Relax.”

Reluctantly I allow him to remove the bottle from my hand and return it to the table.

“I don’t understand,” he says, “why are you making such a big deal about this?”

I sigh and collapse into one of the chairs, taking a long, satisfying pull from my glass. “My sister hasn’t been back here for over a year. Since before my mom left. I just want her to see how well the place is doing.”

Blake glances around the twenty-table restaurant. It’s nearly empty apart from one lone couple who appear to be on a particularly bad date. They’ve barely said more than a sentence to each other since sitting down, and the woman is pushing uneaten ravioli around on her plate as though she were attempting to spell out an SOS distress call.

“Um,” Blake begins cautiously, “I hate to be the one to break this to you, but we’re not exactly
booming
. We could easily have sex on the bar and no one would notice.” He turns to me and cocks an eyebrow. “Actually, that’s the best idea I’ve had all day.”

I groan and stand up, giving him a mock shove with my elbow as I walk by. “What did I tell you about sexually harassing the boss’s daughter?”

He shrugs. “I thought it was part of the job description. You know, tend the bar, pour the drinks, make unwanted advances on the woman who signs my paycheck. Besides you haven’t been the ‘boss’s daughter’ in a while.”

I know he’s right. It’s been almost a year since my mom split town without warning, leaving her precious little Italian bistro—her pride and joy—to nearly be sold off piecemeal by my grieving father. If I hadn’t dropped out of the University of Connecticut and offered to run the place myself, it would probably be a seedy nightclub by now.  

But I refused to let that happen. I couldn’t bear to stand by while my mom’s dream got auctioned off to the highest bidder. She spent years building this place up, creating all the recipes, hand-selecting every bottle of wine and framed photograph on the wall. I couldn’t watch it all fall apart.

The problem is, a year later, that’s exactly what’s happening.

It’s falling apart.

Our Yelp rating has dropped from a 4.5 to a 2.5 in a matter of months, and we rarely serve more than two tables at a time. I remember when we were so busy, people left because the wait was too long. Now, I’m this close to pulling random people off the streets and paying them to sit down. If only just to fill chairs so it won’t look so fucking depressing in here.

I scurry over to the bar and pour myself another glass of wine.

“You’re going to drink away all our profits,” Blake remarks, squeezing behind me, and pinching my waist as he passes. 

 “Good one.” I laugh and check the clock on my phone.

“What time is the famous Alex supposed to arrive?”

I roll my eyes. “
Infamous
is more like it. And fifteen minutes ago. But Alex is always late. She likes making people wait for her. It’s one of her many talents. I told my dad I’d text when she got here, so he doesn’t have to wait, too.”

I swallow half the wine in one gulp.   

“Sit down then.” Blake ushers me to one of the bar stools. “Chillax for a second. I’ve never seen you so stressed out.”

I sink into the seat and exhale out half a lung as Blake begins massaging my shoulders.  “Sorry. Alex just does that to me. She’s…” I wheel my hand around, trying to capture my sister in one word, but all I can come up with is, “Well, she’s
Alex.
”

“Is she as hot as everyone in this town says she is?”

“Hotter.”

“Not hotter than you, though. Obviously.”

I scoff. “Let’s put it this way. If you had gone to high school with us, you wouldn’t even have known who I was. And our high school had ninety people in it.”

Blake leans in and whispers hot and breathy in my ear. “I certainly know who you are now.”

I shrug him away, wiping the moisture from my cheek. Blake returns to the other side of the bar, leaning on his elbows and focusing his hazel eyes on me. “So. When are you going to let me take you out for a real drink?”

I bark out a laugh. Blake is harmless. I’ve learned never to take his advances seriously. Flirting is just something that happens when you work in a restaurant. And Blake flirts with
everyone
.

“My family doesn’t have a good history with bartenders,” I remind him.

“I’m not like most bartenders.”

“You’re
exactly
like most bartenders,” I shoot back.

He feigns offense but at least he’s stopped giving me those stupid lovesick puppy eyes.

I swallow another mouthful of wine.

“Maybe you should slow down.” His eyes narrow in concern.

“Actually, I should speed up. There’s only one way to arm yourself against Alex Smart.” I “cheers” the air with my wine.

Blake takes a clean beer mug from the sink and starts to dry it with his towel. “I thought sisters were supposed to be like best friends or something.”

I shrug. “Some are.”

I polish off the wine in my glass and tap the rim. Blake picks up a new bottle from the shelf and examines the label. “How about a glass of the…” he squints as he reads the name of the vineyard, “In-kai-sa day-la rock-chetta.”

I fight back an eye roll. “
Incisa della Rocchetta
,” I correct his pronunciation of the Tuscan wine. “And sure.”

Blake is a sweetheart and a great bartender but his Italian sucks.

After what happened a year ago, however, we stopped hiring Italian bartenders.

He uncorks the bottle and swaps out my glass. Just then, I feel a tap on my shoulder and I freeze. Leave it up to Alex to sneak in when my back is turned. To catch me unaware.

I turn around and my stomach immediately unclenches when I see it’s just Olivia, our one and only server. She’s holding a plate of barely touched ravioli with a frown on her face.

My body wilts. “Don’t tell me,” I say, feeling disappointment cover me like a wet rag.

She cringes. “Sorry.”

“What did they say was wrong with it?”

She bites her lip. I can tell it kills her to bring this to me. “They just said the sauce was...
bland
.”

My hand clenches around the stem of my newly filled glass.  “How could it be bland? I followed my mother’s recipe to the teaspoon. It has
everything
in it that she put in it. I don’t understand! No one
ever
called my mother’s sauces bland.”

Olivia stands there, unsure of what to say. I know this is not her fault and it’s wrong of me to take it out on her. So I simply sigh and stand up from my bar stool. “Don’t worry,” I tell her. “I’ll take it off their bill.”

She flashes me the quickest of smiles and disappears. I trudge over to the computer, input my manager’s code, and comp the ravioli, bringing the couple’s bill down from $35.95 to $15.34.

Combined with the two other tables we’ve had, that brings are total sales tonight to....

Sixty-two dollars.
  

Fan-fucking-tastic.

My phone gives a shrill ding and I jump. “Oh! My cannoli!”

I hurry through the server’s station and into the kitchen. Blake is on my heels. “Cannoli? You don’t even make cannoli for the regular menu.”

I place my wine down on the counter, yank open the giant, industrial oven and remove the tray of freshly baked pastries, setting them on the counter. “Once they’re cool, I’m going to dip them in chocolate,” I say proudly.

“This girl must be pretty special,” Blake says, bending over and inhaling a whiff from the hot tray.

“I just want everything to be perfect,” I tell him. “If you knew Alex as well I do, you’d understand.”

He pulls his face into a comic grimace. “I’m beginning to think I
don’t
want
to know Alex.”

My giggle fizzles out the moment I hear the familiar jingle of the front door. My body instinctively stiffens. Blake puts a hand on the small of my back. “Relax,” he tells me for the third time tonight.

I suck in a huge breath, grab my wine, and brace myself for the hurricane.

Blake follows closely behind me. “I gotta see this with my own eyes.”

But when I step into the dining room, preparing myself for the worst, I’m surprised to see there’s no one there. Only the bad-date people who are in the process of paying their fifteen dollar check.

“Oh, look,” Blake says, pushing past me. “A customer. What do you know?”

And that’s when I see what he sees. A man—tall and dressed smartly in dark slacks and a blue-collared shirt—is standing at the bar with his back to us. Upon hearing Blake’s voice, he turns around and I swear everything around me just…

Stops.

It’s him.

Oh God, it’s him.

But it can’t be.

It can’t be him.

Him
is supposed to be in Washington, D.C.

Him
is not supposed to be in Eastbrook, Connecticut. In my mother’s restaurant.

The breath catches in my throat and my fingers go numb. Which is unfortunate because my wine glass is clutched between them. Or
was.

The glass plummets to the floor, smashing loudly against the wood panels, and shattering into a zillion pieces.

This snaps me out of my trance. “Shit!”

Instinctively I bend down to gather up the shards but Blake is suddenly there, his hand on my arm, pulling me back up. “Don’t touch that. You’ll slice up your fingers.”

It’s only then I realize I was about to start scooping up splintered glass with my bare hands.

Genius, Lia.

He leads me away from the mess and tells me he’ll take care of it.

My gaze flickers back to the bar. And yes, he’s still there. Although he’s taken a few steps toward me in a haste to help with the mess I’ve made.

He flashes me a smile. “How’s it going, Lil’ Killer.”

Oh God, that voice. Deep and velvety with just the slightest hint of the South.

And that nickname. “Lil’ Killer.” It was our own private joke together. He called me that because of my propensity to land myself in so many potentially dangerous situations.

A ripple of warmth spreads throughout my body and I close my eyes for a second, praying that it’s not him. That’s it just happens to be another ridiculously gorgeous man who runs around calling people “Lil’ Killer.”