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The old Enzo. I feel like I’ve seen a lot of him. Of course, I’ve also seen a lot of the suave billionaire who’s comfortable eating with endless forks and spoons and whatnots. Who travels first class and plans an impossible five-day date in Switzerland.
“But more often . . .” She signs the receipt I lay in front of her. “He’s like a machine. We hardly see him.” I can hear the sadness in her voice, and I totally get it. His family is the kind I’ve always wished for. Big. Loud. People everywhere. A Sunday dinner can turn easily into a thirty-person, extended-family event.
Family is everything to the DeLucas. To Enzo.
At least it was, precollege. Pre-Angel, Inc.
“I am surprised I hadn’t seen him in so long before . . . this. I was away too, but . . .”
But I’ve been back in Bridgewater for years.
“I’m sorry,” she says, taking her package. “Thelastthing I want to do is discourage you. Seriously. We are beyond thrilled, and we just hope Enzo is smart enough to realize what he’s got.” She smiles. “It’s like you’re already a part of the family.”
The idea warms me all over. I won’t deny, at least not to myself, that I want that. But I also don’t want to get too far ahead of myself. Of us.
“Thanks, Lusanne,” I say. “You know I love you all.”
And I do. Devon couldn’t have picked a better best friend, and Enzo’s character isn’t a fluke. Everyone loves the DeLucas.
“We love you too.” She takes out her keys. “If you need anything at all, give me a shout.”
I don’t actually have her number, but the sentiment is appreciated, and I can reach her easily enough on social media.
“Will do. Thanks, Lusanne. And have fun at your party.”
“Have fun in New York,” she says slyly. I’m not surprised she knows about our plans. For as little as he sees them, I know Enzo talks to at least one of his family members every day.
“I will.”
She leaves, and despite her well-intended words of warning, I can’t help but feel a bubble of excitement. In just a few hours, I’m going to be able to touch Enzo again. To taste him. Video chatting is great for keeping in touch, but it doesn’t come close to the real thing.
And more than that. His promise from last night comes back to me.
“Tomorrow after dinner, you’ll be glad I had to cancel last weekend,” he said.
“Really?” I asked him. “And why is that?”
“Because I plan to make it up to you . . . with my tongue.”
And he callsmea tiger.
27
Enzo
Marc Walden, owner of SouthBev, the largest wholesale beer distributor in the Southeast, is kind of a dick. But I’m stuck with him for the time being. His team apparently came down with something on the flight, and both of them are upstairs in their rooms, sick as dogs. Chari’s not here either—not yet. She texted half an hour ago to say she was stuck in traffic. I tried to send a car, but she insisted on driving into the city.
At least Marc and I have had a chance to talk business, which we dispensed with fairly quickly. In truth, this is an entirely unnecessary meeting—something that could have been done remotely—and I suspect the new owner of SouthBev, who inherited the position from his recently deceased father, came here to play. He strikes me as the type who’s more interested in a weekend out on the town than business meetings. Which is fine. Marc just agreed to extend our contract for five years, and given his company’s reach, that means our foothold in the Southeast is secure.
“Pardon,” the waitress says, coming up to our table for the third time. “Are you ready to order or will you be waiting on your guest?” She nods to the empty seat.
I know Chari is just stuck in traffic, but I still can’t shake the worry that something else might be wrong. Marc must know I want to wait, because he glances at me before saying, “We’ll wait.”
His gaze lingers on the pretty waitress, and he makes no attempt to hide his interest.
“Chef’s choice of appetizers?” I ask her.
“Two? Three?”
