Problematic Summer Romance (Not in Love, #2)(29)

She looks so serious, I want to hug her. “Can’t say I do.”

“Bacteria aggregate around the surface of a cell, and—”

“Babe,” Eli says, pulling her backward and into himself. They both look greenish, and about two decades older than last night. I hope the wedding makeup artist is a good one. “Let’s go to sleep, okay?” He coaxes her back inside the room. Tiny, who would never leave Eli and Rue in this time of dire need, disappears after them.

Minami, wearing the pajamas with her baby’s face plastered all over that I gave her as a present last winter, reassures me that she won’t need childcare for the day. “Kaede and I will have some loud fun right next to where Daddy is passed out. Won’t we?”

I consider sliding an I LUV PHILLY FLYERS note under Axel’s door, but it seems like too much work, so I head downstairs.

The spread Lucrezia prepared in the dining room pulls a gasp from me: a pristine white linen cloth, various wicker baskets lined in gingham fabric and full of fresh bread, croissants, and brioche, glass jars of jam and honey, little pots of yellow butter. There are several ceramic vases, brimming with bright pink, magenta, and white bougainvillea. It looks so rustic and picture-perfect, I briefly wonder if I stumbled on the set of a high-fiber breakfast cereal commercial.

But Conor’s presence drains the vibes of any idyll. He sits alone at the head of the long table, chin resting on one hand, two fingers thoughtfully brushing his lips. He glares at his open laptop like he’s a hairbreadth from Venmoing someone to have it murdered.

“Look at you, being all Citizen Kane,” I say, ignoring the way my stomach flips onto itself.

He glances up, still scowling, and gestures for me to sit on his right. I don’t know why, but I do just that.

“Maya?”

“Yup?”

“Does physics have an explanation for why humans insist on being such fucking shitheads?”

“Not as far as I know. But I could inquire.”

He grunts, closing his laptop. In the morning, the silver strands throughout his hair are even more visible.

“Is it work stuff? The…active-deal thing?”

“No.” He shakes his head. Runs a palm across his clean-shaved jaw. I’m tempted to prod, find out more, but Lucrezia comes in in a flurry of loud, drawn-out vowels, her hands curling warmly around my shoulders. As one of the precious few who refused to drink Axel’s death juice, I skyrocketed to a very high place in her esteem. She beams, then says something about caffè while pointing at me, and when Conor nods, she ruffles his hair in a way that seems a bit too familiar, even for a touchy-feely nation.

“You don’t happen to be her love child, do you?” I ask, taking a sip of water.

He shrugs. “Knowing my father, it’s very possible.”

I think he’s joking. “What do you mean? You…Did you not just meet her?”

“I used to come here as a kid. It’s one of the many properties my father owned.”

“Oh. When did he sell it?”

“He didn’t.”

“But you said ‘owned’?”

He leans back. Studies me for a long beat. “Did you not hear?”

“Hear…what?”

“My father died.”

“What? When?”

“A few months ago.”

“I…” Don’t know what to say. Because the day my dad died, I felt as though I would vanish any minute. I had been, first and foremost, his goblin princess. If he was no longer around to call me that, that meant that nothing could tether me to this world. I could see no path forward. The pain was staggering. Incomprehensible.

Conor’s father, though…

“Congratulations,” is all I can think of saying.

After a beat, Conor smiles, looking pleased and surprised. “Thank you, Trouble.”

“I would have sent you a celebratory edible arrangement. I’m not sure why Eli didn’t tell me.”

“Probably because it was widely covered by international media.” He sounds gently amused.

“Your dad was that big of an asshole, huh?”

“Regrettably.”

We regard each other. Between us, only a table corner and a whole lot of silence. “So,” I ask, tearing off a piece of bread. The crust is as thin and crispy as the inside is airy. “Who’s the new owner of—”

I stop when Lucrezia returns and deposits a glass in front of me. I thank her, then wait for her to leave again before asking in a low whisper, “Why did she bring me a slushy?”

Conor looks at me like I just produced a legally actionable claim. “Jesus Christ.”

“What?”

“Maya.”

“What did I do?”

“Took a dump on centuries of Sicilian culture?”

I blink. “Because I asked about the slushy?”

“It’s called a granita. Granita al caffè. With panna—the heavy cream on top.” He plucks a brioche bun from the basket on his left and puts it on my plate. It’s oddly shaped: a round, donut-like base, and a tinier ball on top of it.

“Am I supposed to drink after I eat the boob with a giant nipple that’s having a severe allergic reaction, or before?” I mostly ask because I love the way the corners of Conor’s eyes crinkle together when he’s annoyed at me. But the Arabica aroma wafts up, making me salivate, and Conor…he’s always been good at feeding me.