Page 10 of Mom Com

My only consolation is that Wilder is nowhere to be seen. Still, I find myself backstepping just as a hand touches my shoulder.

“There you are,” Liv says, and I’m so jumpy that I slosh a bit of wine on the floor.

CHAPTER4

Don’t Poke the Bear-ey And Cream Stuffed Cake—

with a center of crème anglaise and an equally messy temper

“Let’s get this over with, shall we?” Liv says, gently pulling my elbow forward, otherwise, I probably wouldn’t move.

While it makes me feel ever so slightly better to have solidarity in wanting to escape the benefit, it doesn’t make walking into the dining room any more appealing. But like in all things, Liv takes charge, flashing me a decisive smile.

I train my eyes forward, once again avoiding eye contact. I hear my name whispered as I follow Liv, but I don’t investigate. Eat dinner. Have a drink. Make an excuse and leave before the socializing starts. That’s the plan, folks.

When we reach the table there’s already a middle-aged couple sitting with Liv’s parents, an elderly woman who must be the woman’s mother, and a teenaged boy who looks like he might die of boredom.

Liv and I take two empty seats next to each other, and her parents are so engrossed in their conversation that Mrs. Buenaventura barely registers our presence from the other end of the table. I exhale audibly and take a sip of my wine as the butler from the front room announces that food will be served. A string quartet plays classical music next to the fireplace and the guests drink and chat happily at their tables. So far so good. But my relief is short-lived because there, entering the dining room, is Wilder.

Wavy dark hair swoops across one side of his forehead as though it were intentionally tousled, lazily framing his large brown eyes and aristocratic features. His clothes are impeccable—a perfectly tailored black suit and shiny black shoes. His mouth is curved in his signature smirk, an expression that makes him look like he’s privately enjoying a joke. He’s devastatingly good-looking, more so than I remember, his shoulders have filled out nicely and his facial structure is more defined since the last time I saw him at seventeen.

For a split second, my heart stumbles over itself. I’m taken aback by how familiar he is. How the kid part of me that fell in love with him feels bolstered, like he’s not just a person, butmyperson, my other half.

“Smile, you crazy love birds,” Liv says, lifting her camera.

We turn, grinning at her as she snaps a picture, our skin tanned from endless hours outside and our hair salty from the wave that crashed over us one minute prior.

Liv takes a long look at us, shaking her head. “I have to say, this whole dating deal suits you two. You’re kinda perfect in a stupid way.”

Wilder fakes shock. “Liv? You feeling okay? That sounded like admitting that romance is a good thing.”

She rolls her eyes. “Romance is for idiots. But, I’ll admit, you two make it seem not so awful.” Her friends call her name, and she saunters off with a grin before we can reply.

Wilder’s attention shifts back to me. His dark wavy hair drips onto his warm bronze skin and he rubs his hands over his face, shaking out the errant drops. He’s a perfect mixture of his British mother and his Argentinian father, with strikingly elegant bone structure, an infectious laugh, and magnetic eyes.

I smile. “Are you sure you two are related? Liv’s like a rockstar with a studded leather jacket and a lady-killer smile. And you?” I say, reaching out to touch the bare skin on his chest.

“Go on,” Wilder says, winding his hands around my lower back and pulling me into him. “And me, what?”

“You’re like Jane Austen–level period romance. Complete opposites,” I say, as he pushes back my wet hair and plants a kiss on my forehead, basically proving my point.

“So, what you’re saying is that I’m marriage material?” he replies with a smirk, his fingers working their way down my neck, his lips following.

I laugh as shivers radiate from where his warm mouth grazes my skin. “The good news for you is I’ve always found old-timey picnicking men in straw hats impossibly sexy.”

He pulls back, smiling at me, his fingers tracing my collarbone like it were a fascinating discovery. “That is good news because I’ve always found Italian girls with magical baking abilities impossibly irresistible.”

His words move through me like the sun heating me from the inside out. “Is that so?” I muse, our faces now inches apart.

“It really, really is,” he says, his breath on my lips, scented with the Capri Sun we shared not ten minutes earlier. As he presses his mouth to mine, my stomach dips and my heart surges and I wonder how I’ll ever get enough of his touch.

I forcefully shake the memory away, scowling at myself for having thought it in the first place, blaming my lapse in judgment on my unease. And like a calculated assault on my nerves, Kate steps through the door behind Wilder, taking her place by his side. She leans in to tell him something privately and when she places her hand on his arm, he smiles down at her.

They walk toward us, chatting, but as they near the table, Wilder looks up, seeing me for the first time, the simple act of eye contact enough to make my pulse pound in my ears.

He stops dead in his tracks a couple of feet from the table. “Maddi?” he says, shocked.

“Hey, baby brother,” Liv says, thankfully saving me from having to reply.