Page 12 of The Great Dating Fake Off
A frown tugs at his lips. It looks as at home there as the trio of three small moles on his right cheek, which he calls his personal Bermuda triangle. “Benji is already a nickname. And the only acceptable one.”
“Long live Benji, then.” The bite of the air conditioning nips at my skin. It feels like it should be winter with all the dark accents and cold air in here. I nod toward the groom’s family. “Now what’s this history?”
“It’s about a hundred years of bitterness, dating back to Umbria when we were all farmers in the Italian countryside. Their somebody or other accused our somebody or other of stealing sheep. Apparently it was a very big deal. The feud persisted when they came over together and settled here. Long Island may be big, but they’ve found ways to stay in one another’s business and at one another’s throats.”
“Over sheep? What is this, Catan?”
“It’s exactly as absurd as it sounds.” He sounds as bored as he usually does when discussing anything human drama adjacent.
“Why would they settle so close to one another, then?”
“Because Long Island was the place to be if you were an Italian immigrant in the 1920s, I guess.” He stretches his arms overhead. His shirt is a little too small, or maybe his torso is a little too long. The move puts his flat, olive-toned stomach on display. “Anyway, hopefully the fact that a Ferraro is marrying a Mazzelli will put an end to the feud once and for all. Or, if the itinerary I was emailed has anything to say about it, it will end in bloodshed disguised as ‘friendly family pickleball.’”
“Pickleball?”
“It’s one of the many activities scheduled this week. So many. The dinners have themes. It’s atrocious.” His expression is the same as when I try to recap my favorite shows for him before he’s had his coffee.
“Themes? You know I love that kind of stuff—why didn’t you tell me? I’m going to need you to forward me the itinerary immediately.”
“No need. We can eat dinner in my room most nights. You can put on your shows while I work. Doesn’t that sound nice?”
I frown. “It sounds like you’re trying to weasel your way out of family meals. Not going to happen.”
“We’ll see about that.” He gestures lazily over his shoulder. “I’m going to find the bathroom. You want to get in line? If you get to the counter before me, just check in for your room and I’ll get mine after.”
“The line has more people than the whole of Liechtenstein. I’m sure it won’t come to that. Just don’t get caught up in too many conversations on your way back.”
“Believe me, I’ll do my best.” He lumbers off, casting a generous side-eye toward a woman wearing sleek Wayfarer sunglasses indoors and carrying a bottle of Dom Perignon in the crook of her arm.
I can already tell that’s his must be a Mazzelli face and we’ve only just gotten here.
The lobby, which feels abundantly spacious with cedar beams running the length of the vaulted ceiling, is rapidly filling with even more people. These families took check in starts at three p.m. literally.
I take my spot at the end of the line behind a tall, seemingly athletic guy. His legs, I determine after a quick once-over, are Louvre-worthy art. Long, muscly without being bulky, and perfectly showcased in dressy shorts.
And that’s just his legs. The Louvre would gladly accept the rest of him, too.
I force myself to dig out my phone so I don’t ogle his back, or his arms, or his perfectly mussed hair. I’m a sucker for good hair, and his makes my palms itch.
Gaze glued to my phone, I fall down a deep internet rabbit hole of trying to figure out the origins of a famous couple’s divorce. I’ve comfortably amassed enough evidence to take the wife’s side when he turns sideways to stretch. The shape of his nose and lips, rise of his cheeks, and angle of his jaw triggers a snapshot memory. The recognition center of my brain lights up like a circuit board.
No freaking way.
Sebastian Rossi. AKA the Boys and Girls Club guy who has yet to return my email. It’s been only a few days, but still.
Why is he here? In the Adirondacks?
I open my texts and scroll back in time. When I find the message he sent, my thumbs hover over the keyboard as I contemplate my play.
I’m in the market for a suitcase. Any recommendations?
He reaches into his pocket, pulls out his phone, and reads my text.
My pulse quickens as he starts to type.
That’s an unexpected question from you, Ms. Manager.
The wind threatens to leave my sails. If he’s calling me Ms. Manager, does that mean he didn’t save my contact information?
