Page 42 of Mom Com

Wilder takes the seat across from mine. “Apologies if I’ve delayed your meal.”

“Not a problem, darling,” Wilder’s mother says, her voice like honey. “Anniversaries are important. We all understand. I do wish you would have brought Kate with you, though.”

My stomach does a fast drop and I divert my eyes from Wilder. His big pressing obligation was his anniversary with Kate? Not that I care. I don’t. I mean, I think I don’t.

“I’m glad you didn’t bring her,” Liv says under her breath, clearly for her brother’s benefit.

Wilder’s eyebrow shoots up and he gives his sister a knowing look. “So Liv, where’s your girlfriend tonight? How come you haven’t brought her home for everyone to meet?”

“Yes,” Mr. Buenaventura agrees. “Why do you keep her from us?”

Liv scowls at Wilder but answers her father. “I’m heading to the city later tonight, Dad,” she explains. “She has a shoot tomorrow or I would have brought her.”

Wilder’s smirk appears like he’s calling bullshit. “Then you’ll bring her to our Christmas Eve party?”

“What a good idea,” her dad agrees.

I can tell by the look on Liv’s face that’s never going to happen in a million years. But it’s kind of sweet how much her parents want to be involved in her dating life, especially because, despite Liv’s super-independent, bad-boy persona, she seems to be in an actual relationship.

“Think of your brother,” Mrs. Buenaventura says enthusiastically. “He’ll be off to Europe again soon enough. We must soak in this time together.”

Wait, he’s doing what now?

All eyes turn toward Mrs. Buenaventura.

“Mom,” Wilder starts, but my mother interjects.

“I didn’t realize you were returning to Europe, Wilder,” my mom says with surprise.

“Neither did I,” I echo and immediately feel a little embarrassed. Why should I care?

“Oh, yes,” Mr. Buenaventura answers for him. “He’s going to take over the London branch of my company.”

My fork freezes halfway to my mouth. I don’t know why I’m shocked; it makes sense Wilder would work for his family. But for some reason, I just never pictured him in real estate development.

“Really? I had no idea,” my mom says. “You never mentioned it, Hannah.”

Mrs. Buenaventura nods. “I wasn’t actually sure we could convince him, but then he came back here a year and a half ago and well...”

“I’m here for another year at the very least,” Wilder tells my mother, obviously trying to reassure her about the bakery without actually saying the words.

But his mother isn’t finished. “A year that is certain to be very busy. He’ll be sitting on the board here to train under his father.”

Holy shit. Sothisis the agreement Wilder made that he said he’d have a hard time getting out of? I manage to shove my salad in my mouth, not experiencing relief the way I imagined—shouldn’t I be beaming with delight that there’s no way Wilder will be able to maintain full-time at the bakery? So then why do I have this pit in my stomach?

Mr. Buenaventura looks from his wife to my mom, clearly aware of the tension that has settled over the table. “I hope this doesn’t put you out in any way, Eleanor. I know my son has been helping you at the bakery quite a bit. If it does, I can always have my recruiter find you a replacement.”

“Thank you, Francesco,” my mother says, clearly deflated but too polite to say so. “I’ll just need a moment to think about it.”

And surprisingly, I find myself worrying about my mom, which makes no sense whatsoever. Shouldn’t I be happy that it’s Wilder’s parents who are pulling the plug on this insanity instead of me? Why aren’t I happy?

When I glance across the table, I find Liv looking at me, like she’s trying to tell me something telepathically.

“That’s a great idea, Francesco,” Mrs. Buenaventura says like it’s all settled. “And such good luck that Madeline has moved back just in time to fill in.”

I open my mouth to say that I haven’t moved back but close it again. My mother definitely doesn’t need that right now.

Wilder’s jaw is tense, and his mouth is set in a hard line. “I intend to stay on full-time at the bakery,” he says to his parents, sending a ripple of unease through the dinner table.