Mistletoe Season by Michelle Major

CHAPTER SEVEN

“INVITEHIMTODINNER.”

“Mom, no.”

“He’s your boyfriend. I want to get to know him.”

Angi inwardly cringed at the excitement in her mother’s tone. “We’re dating. It’s new. He’s not exactly my boyfriend.”

“Of course he is. He kissed you in the middle of the town square.”

“On the head, Mom. He gave me a quick peck on the head.”

“A kiss is a kiss.”

As she’d predicted, news of her so-called relationship with Gabe Carlyle spread like melted cheese oozing from an overcooked mozzarella stick.

Before the final notes of the last song of the holiday concert had been played, Mariella had tracked her down in the crowd.

“When I told you to make up a boyfriend, I meant from your imagination,” she’d said in a low voice. “Not to pick the man who irritates the hell out of you and call him your dream guy.”

Angi had yanked Mariella away from the crowd to the quiet of a copse of fir trees. They were adorned with strands of white lights and helped give the impression of that section of the square being some sort of magical fairy garden.

“I didn’t say he was my dream guy.” Although other than the fact that he didn’t like her, Gabe came pretty close. Hot as sin, hardworking, dedicated to his grandmother, kind in his unique way to her son. “He’s not.”

“Are you trying to convince me or yourself?” Mariella had asked with a knowing twinkle in her eyes.

“I asked him, and he’s willing to do it. I’m going to help around his grandmother’s shop. You’re going to help me help him, and this will get my mom to stop setting me up with every not-so-eligible guy around these parts and to use as cover when I’m really at the inn. I can’t use her home kitchen, and she’d hear about it if I was at Il Rigatone after hours.”

“I still think the imaginary boyfriend would have been safer,” Mariella had told her.

“Gabe is plenty safe,” Angi had lied.

She’d been telling far too many lies lately. It was getting difficult to keep them all straight. She took a deep breath and placed a hand on her mother’s arm. “I don’t think it would be a great idea for Gabe to come over right now.”

“Gabe is coming over?” Andrew asked as he walked into the room. “Cool. I can show him my Minecraft world.”

“Even my grandson wants him here,” Bianca said with a sniff. “It seems odd that you’re the only one who doesn’t.”

“It isn’t that I don’t want him,” Angi muttered. In fact, just the opposite. She wanted him far too much.

“Then invite him.”

She grabbed her phone from the back pocket of the corduroy pants she wore and punched in a text. “He’s probably tired or already has plans.”

“You don’t know?”

“Mom, we’re dating. I’m not his parole officer. There’s no ankle monitor that keeps me apprised of his whereabouts.”

She let out a little yelp when her phone dinged.

“You’re nervous,” Bianca said with a satisfied smile. “It’s cute.”

Hardly.

But her pulse thrummed when she read his response. “He’s coming for dinner. What time?”

“Six. We always eat at six. You know that, my sweet cannoli. Nervous. So cute.”

As Bianca studied her, Angi pasted on a smile—not a nervous one either. But her finger trembled slightly as she texted him the time and told him he didn’t have to worry about bringing anything. Her mother had sat at the kitchen table and was furiously scribbling on a pad of paper, probably coming up with questions she planned to ask Gabe that would no doubt embarrass Angi to no end.

She hadn’t talked to him since the concert, although she’d emailed him several ideas for updates to In Bloom from an exhaustive internet search of successful small-town flower shops. After tonight, she was going to owe him a lot more than sage advice on stocking the right inventory.

Neither Angi nor her brothers brought dates to the family home very often. The last time Marco had invited a girlfriend to a family dinner, the poor woman had left in tears after their mother had grilled her about why she refused to eat bread if she could handle gluten.

It was a lesson learned for all three of Bianca’s children.

Sure, her mom had made an offhand comment about Gabe and Angi dating, but now it was real. When her father was alive, he’d made it clear that few men could ever live up to the standards he’d set for his daughter.

“Here is my list,” Bianca said, ripping off a piece of paper. “You’ll need to go to the store right now so the cheesecake has time to set and I can get started on chopping the mushrooms for the marsala sauce.”

“What marsala sauce?” Angi asked, gazing at the list of items her mother had requested. “I defrosted an enchilada casserole overnight.”

“We aren’t feeding your new boyfriend a reheated taco pie for his first time having dinner with us. You have to show him what an amazing cook you are. You know what they say about the way to a man’s heart.”

“I’m not trying to impress him with my culinary skills,” Angi argued. “Besides, he knows I can cook.”

“Gabe says Mom’s spaghetti and meatball tacos are his favorite thing.”

Bianca narrowed her eyes. “What is this spaghetti taco? We don’t serve tacos at the restaurant.”

Not exactly true since Angi had put the popular recipe she’d developed for the inn as a special on the Il Rigatone menu last week. She felt a familiar sense of guilt wash over her.

She’d specifically chosen to feature the dish on a night when her mother had gone in for a checkup earlier. Bianca was always tired after her doctor’s appointments so Angi knew her mom wouldn’t make a surprise visit to Il Rigatone.

But after the fiasco with the sausage balls and her mom’s reaction at the concert, she wasn’t going there again soon. “I made dinner at his house a while back.” She shrugged. “It was just a weekday night when you were at book club and Andrew had practice.”

“So this thing between the two of you isn’t exactly new?” Bianca nodded slowly. “You’ve been holding out on me, Angela.”

“No, Mom.” At least not in the way her mother thought. “But your menu sounds amazing.” Before Bianca could ask her any more questions, Angi grabbed her purse and headed for the door. “I’ll be back shortly.”

She only briefly considered driving past the grocery store turnoff and continuing down the highway out of Magnolia and into parts unknown. She’d always done the same thing when times got tough—imagined fleeing to a new place with Andrew in tow. But she understood that trouble could, and most likely would, follow her anywhere. Better to face it head-on.

At the store, she added everything her mom had asked for to the cart, plus a pint of rocky road ice cream—appropriate for her mood—and a bag of chocolate-covered espresso beans. If she was going to face life head-on, might as well do it with a bit of sugar and caffeine in her system.

The rest of the afternoon passed quickly as she and her mom made homemade gnocchi to accompany the chicken marsala, Andrew helping to form the little U-shaped pieces of yummy goodness. The familiar steps calmed her frazzled nerves as the scent of potato filled the kitchen. She’d often resented the way her family’s tried and true recipes overshadowed her culinary creativity. Il Rigatone sometimes felt like a lead weight around her neck. But in her mother’s kitchen, with the warm yellow walls and the vintage gas stove where Angi had first learned to love cooking, it was different.

Her mother seemed happier, as well. It reminded Angi that as much as she didn’t want to take over the restaurant, her mom also didn’t want to necessarily give up her role. They laughed and then poured two glasses of wine, harmonizing along with Frank Sinatra and Bing Crosby as they sang about their white Christmas dreams.

She lost track of time so completely that shock pulsated through her when the doorbell rang. A glance at the clock on the stove showed her it was nearly six. “He’s here,” she whispered, wondering why butterflies danced across her stomach and how to best tamp them down for good.

“Answer the door,” her mother suggested with a knowing smile.

“Look at me.” Angi brushed her hands across the apron she’d tied around her waist. It was still dusted with flour. “I’m a mess. I meant to stop early and change clothes.”

“You’re beautiful.” Bianca cupped Angi’s cheeks between her palms. “You’re always most beautiful when you’re in the kitchen. It’s your place of joy, sweet cannoli girl. Just like it was your father’s.”

Tears clogged Angi’s throat. She loved the thought that she shared this passion with her father. Despite her current situation, so many of her happy memories involved him and food.

“Gabe’s here,” Andrew announced.

Her mother patted her cheeks and then turned to welcome their guest.

Angi stirred the sauce as Bianca clucked over Gabe, taking his coat and offering him a glass of wine. The good thing about having been occupied in the kitchen was that she hadn’t had time to get nervous. The bad thing was she was sweaty and flushed, and smelled like flour and butter.

Andrew bounced up and down, more animated than Angi had seen him in ages. Her son really did have a connection with Gabe. Andrew ran out of the room to collect some toy he wanted to show their guest.

“Smells delicious.” Gabe’s voice was soft at her side, and she turned, not wanting to appear as flustered by his presence as she was.

“Thanks for coming over.” She glanced around him to find that they were alone in the kitchen, at least for the moment. Her mother had gone to hang up his coat in the front hall.

“Thanks for the invite.” He lifted his hand and brushed a thumb across her cheek. “You have a bit of flour here.”

“I’m as coated as a Sunday chicken,” she said, her cheeks flushing when the words came out breathy. “I meant to get cleaned up, but my mom was so happy in the kitchen. I was happy hanging out and just having fun. Slowing down has been tough for her and...” She drew in a slow breath. “I’m babbling.”

“I don’t mind.” His eyes were bright with amusement. “The babbling or the flour.”

“We can talk about ideas for a big event to cap off the festival.” She took a step back from him, and it felt like pulling herself away from a magnet drawing her closer. “It doesn’t have to be a complete waste that you came over here.”

“A home-cooked meal is never a waste.”

“That’s what I told her,” Bianca practically shouted as she walked back into the room. “A man likes a woman who knows her way around the kitchen.”

Angi rolled her eyes. “Mom, we aren’t in the nineteen fifties anymore. I don’t have to impress anyone with my domestic skills.” She narrowed her eyes at Gabe. “I hate to vacuum, in case you were wondering.”

He held up his hands, amusement still dancing in his gaze. “I wasn’t. Promise.”

“She knows how to vacuum,” her mother said, like she had to cover for her daughter’s domestic deficiencies. “I taught her to back out of the room as she goes so there are no footprints in the brush pattern.”

Gabe looked between the two of them. “Is that a thing?”

“No,” Angi muttered.

“Of course it is,” her mother countered. “Give him a taste of your sauce, cannoli. He needs a sample. I’ll set the table in the dining room. We’ll eat on the good china with our guest.”

“Don’t go to any trouble on my account,” Gabe said, looking vaguely terrified.

“No trouble,” Bianca assured him, and bustled into the next room.

Angi grabbed a wooden spoon from one of the ceramic containers on the counter.

“Is it just me, or did that business about me tasting your sauce seem to have a double meaning?” he asked.

“Ignore her,” Angi advised as she dipped the spoon into the pot of simmering sauce. “But you still have to try it.”

Keeping her gaze trained on his mouth, she gave him a taste. She refused to think about how soft his lips had been when he’d kissed her, at odds with his rough exterior.

A low moan of appreciation hummed out of him, and Angi felt pride flush through her.

“It’s so good,” he said. “Different than how it is at the restaurant, though. A little tangier.”

She nodded and glanced over his shoulder. “I put in a dash of vinegar. My mom doesn’t know, but I think it adds a richer complexity to the sauce.”

“You don’t make that change for your customers?”

“Il Rigatone uses my great-grandmother’s recipe, the one that she passed down to her daughter who passed it down to my father. It’s our family tradition.”

“And you want something different?”

“Yes.” She knew he was speaking about the sauce, but the gentle manner in which he asked the question made her want to tell him more. To share that for years she’d dreamed of making her way in the world. How leaving Magnolia had been hard but necessary. The fact that she’d locked away every selfish desire she had when Andrew came into the world. Her son was her whole world, but now she feared she’d convinced herself of that because she didn’t have anything else. Emma had given her a chance for something new—pushed her into believing she could have more.

And now she was back to making the recipes that were part of her history and sneaking in ingredients while her mother’s back was turned or throwing new specials on the menu when they wouldn’t be discovered, as those were her only ways to assert her independence. And hiding wasn’t any kind of freedom.

“Who would win in a fight?” Andrew asked, and Angi startled and took a step back. “Deadpool or Wolverine?”

“That’s a tough one,” Gabe said without taking his eyes off Angi. Once again, she knew he wasn’t just talking about action heroes. He turned to Andrew and held out a hand to take one of the figurines from her son. “Now if I was going to choose a guy to have at my side in a fight, I’d pick Captain America. He’s not always running his mouth and he avoids violence as a rule, but you know he’s got your back when it counts.”

Andrew studied the two plastic men, clearly processing everything Gabe had said. “I’d pick Wolverine.”

Gabe quirked a brow at Angi. “Want to weigh in with an opinion?”

“I’m going with Wonder Woman,” she said. “She’s still the best.”

“Mom.” Andrew groaned. “It’s not even the same universe.”

“Then I want to live in the universe with Wonder Woman.”

“I think you already do,” Gabe said, and then proceeded to engage in a detailed discussion about superheroes with her son.

Had he just subtly compared her to Wonder Woman? Oh, boy. She needed to keep her head on straight around this one and remember that nothing that happened between them—or anything she felt for him—was real.

They ate dinner in the dining room with Angi regularly cringing or groaning as her mother shared embarrassing details about her childhood with Gabe. As if he cared to hear any of that.

To his credit, he played along like a champ. He laughed at the right moments, asked for seconds of the marsala and gnocchi. If Angi wasn’t smitten at that point, her mother certainly seemed so.

So much so, that as they cleaned up the plates, Bianca turned to Gabe, grabbed his hand and said, “I have a favor to ask you.”

He looked mildly fearful yet nodded. “What can I do for you?”

“I’d like you to bring up the Christmas tree from the basement.”

“Mom, no.” Angi flipped off the water and turned from the sink.

Gabe’s eyes went wide. “I...if you want... I mean...”

“Vincent carried it up every year the day after Thanksgiving. It was tradition. Cursing and muttering the whole time about what a pain it was. But he loved that tree. Our house is empty without it. Do you have a Christmas tree in your grandmother’s house?”

“Uh, no.”

Angi stepped forward. “Mom, seriously. You and I can bring up the tree.”

“I’m not sure my heart could take the strain of the stairs.” Bianca patted her chest.

“You walked two miles yesterday after your water aerobics class. If you can’t manage it, Andrew will help me.”

“But Gabe is here.” Bianca moved her hand up his arm and squeezed his biceps. “A strapping young man and he doesn’t mind.” She turned to him, literally batted her eyes. “You don’t mind, right?”

“I’ll get the tree.”

“I’ll show you where it is.” Irritation and embarrassment warred inside Angi. She wagged a finger at her mother as she walked by. “This is why Marco and Luca don’t bring their girlfriends home.”

“There are no girls good enough for my boys.”

There were times Angi wished she’d paid more attention to the Italian lessons her grandmother had tried to give her when she was younger. She could have used a rant in another language at the moment. She settled for throwing up her hands and stalking toward the basement, far too aware of Gabe on her heels.

“SHEMEANSWELL.”

Angi rounded on Gabe as she hit the bottom step in her parents’ unfinished basement. “You have got to be joking. That wasn’t a mother with good intentions.” She pointed to the ceiling. “That was out of line.”

“You’re the one who wanted a boyfriend for the holidays.”

“To get her off my case. Not so she could start picking out china patterns.”

“I never understood good china,” Gabe said conversationally, wanting to distract her. He’d had a great time at dinner, better than he’d ever expected. He didn’t think being asked to carry a Christmas tree was the worst thing that could happen to him. “I was in a friend’s wedding last spring, and they got so many plates. A million different sizes of glasses and two gravy boats. What does anyone need with two gravy boats?”

Her mouth formed a small O, and he bit back a smile. At least he’d gotten her mind off the irritation with her mom for a few moments. He took the opportunity to place his hands on her arms and move her to one side so he could get down the last couple of steps. The basement was small but neat, with rows of shelves along two of the walls. A washer and dryer took up space in one corner, and there was an abandoned exercise bike currently being used as a drying rack.

“You were in a wedding? Like as an attendant?”

He frowned. “Best man, actually. One of my army buddies.”

“That’s so strange.”

“You think so?”

“Did you smile for pictures?” She studied him as if he were a puzzle to solve. “And dance and make a toast? Like an actual human being.”

“Tell me what you really think about me.” He shook his head. Maybe this plan to distract her was working too well. The last thing he wanted or needed was someone dissecting his habits or personality or where he was lacking in either area.

“You just don’t seem like the wedding-party type.”

“My actual friends would tell you I’m not the fake-boyfriend type either, but your mom seems to be on board with it.”

“She likes you,” Angi murmured, still in puzzle-solving mode.

“She likes the thought of you settled.”

That drew an unexpected laugh from her. “I’m a single mom living in my childhood bedroom and working the same job I had when I was sixteen. Not exactly living the wild life here.”

She pointed to an overly large plastic bag stuffed between two shelves. “There’s the tree. It’s a behemoth, but luckily my dad updated to one with pre-strung lights a couple of years ago. I have so many memories of him shouting and swearing at the burned-out bulbs.”

“Why is your mom so interested in finding you a guy? Does she do the same thing with your brothers?”

Angi shook her head. “Luca has been dating the same woman for five years, even though it’s been nearly that long since he brought her to visit. They’re bound to get engaged one of these days. Marco is a serial dater with no intention of settling down.”

“Neither of them wants to work in the family restaurant?”

“Oh, Lord, no. They both hightailed it out of Magnolia as soon as they were able. For some reason, my mom doesn’t worry about them like she does me. Maybe because they’re doing well and I’m—”

“You’re raising a great kid, taking care of your mom, running the family business and making a go of your own business at the same time. Give yourself a break, Ang.”

“I never thought I’d get a pep talk from you.” She dragged out the tree bag, sneezing once when a cloud of dust puffed into the air.

“I didn’t anticipate giving one,” Gabe agreed, and took hold of the edge. “You’re not the same person who treated people like dirt on your shoe back in the day.”

“Not a flattering assessment, but I guess it’s a win that you think I’ve changed.”

He heard the pain in her voice and stopped moving until she looked at him. Her gaze was solid on his, and if he didn’t know better he’d swear he saw understanding in it. “People make mistakes,” he told her.

“Does that mean you forgive me for mine?”

“You don’t need my forgiveness,” he told her. “I’m just the pretend boyfriend.” He made the words casual and focused on maneuvering the tree up the narrow staircase. He didn’t know if Angi truly wanted his forgiveness or if he was in a place to give it to her.

In a lot of ways that would only confuse things, and his life was already complicated enough.

But as he set up the tree under her mother’s watchful eye, Gabe realized that his version of complicated didn’t have to be the only one. Angi had a lot to deal with, but the love she felt for her mother and vice versa was palpable. They hung ornaments and her mom told a story about almost each and every one, with Andrew continuously asking for more details. So many memories of happy Christmases, memories Gabe didn’t have.

His mom hadn’t cared much about the holidays, other than when it came to whatever lavish gift she wanted from her boyfriend of the moment. There hadn’t been decorations, and some years she’d forgotten to buy presents altogether until the last minute. Gabe had gotten used to receiving random gifts obviously purchased from the chain drugstore that was open late on Christmas Eve. Gran had always sent something perfect, but more often than not, her thoughtfulness only seemed to infuriate his mom.

The more he compared Angi’s family traditions with those of his own, his gut began to clench. He was the worst option for a fake boyfriend because what did he know about what normal people did or acted like?

She’d been right to question his ability to have friends or act human. He hadn’t made friends easily as a kid, and his time in the military had just about pummeled the desire to connect with people out of him. He’d transformed himself from the wimpy kid who was a target for bullies far and wide to a hard and honed soldier, but the cost was too great.

He watched Andrew as he hung each ornament his nonna handed him with care and precision. Gabe mentally made a plan to show up at the elementary school the following morning and beat the snot out of those little punks who were tormenting Angi’s son.

Okay, he wouldn’t hurt a kid, but he was ready to scare them enough so that they’d be motivated to leave Drew alone.

The kid was valiant in his dedication to learning self-defense or karate or any kind of fighting moves in order to be tougher, but Gabe knew from firsthand experience that wasn’t the answer. Andrew was perfect just as he was, and Gabe wanted to protect that innocence. The way he’d wanted a protector.

As Angi met his gaze across the room, her eyes warm and filled with a gentle sentimentality, his heart leaped in his chest. He wasn’t fit to be the boy’s protector or her knight in shining armor or even a decent fake boyfriend. But damn if he didn’t want all three.

Gabe had learned at an early age that it was the wanting that led to heartache. Wanting made him vulnerable. Wanting made him an easy target. He’d crafted a life devoid of hungering for things he shouldn’t hunger for, and he wasn’t about to change it now.

He stood abruptly. “I’ve got to go,” he muttered, and stalked from the room and out the front door before anyone could argue.

Angi followed him, and he held up a hand as she caught up to him halfway to his car. “No more family dinners,” he said, grounding out the words and hoping she couldn’t hear the emotion behind them.

“Okay,” she agreed immediately. “Although you did pretty well—better than me—up until the last few minutes. What’s wrong?”

“I don’t like Christmas,” he said without thinking.

“Yet you didn’t walk away from the festival cochair role even though it meant working with me.”

“I wanted to piss you off.”

“How’s that working for you?”

He glanced toward her as he reached the truck. “I’m the one who’s pissed off.”

“Give me a minute,” she promised, squeezing shut her eyes with a grimace. “I can conjure anger with the best of them.”

He didn’t want that. He liked seeing her smile, making her smile. The fact of it pissed him off even more.

After a moment she opened her eyes again. “Thank you for coming over tonight.”

“You don’t sound angry.” He didn’t bother to hide the accusation in his tone.

“I hide it better than you,” she admitted.

“That’s the problem,” he told her as he climbed into his truck. “I’m not good at pretending.”

He started the engine and drove away before she saw what he needed to hide most of all. The fact that he’d never stopped wanting her.