Pretend It's Love(5)

But the very thought made his stomach turn.

"It's amazing how one little article can make such a big difference,"  she said, graciously turning the conversation back to the bar. "You  know, this is exactly the kind of place that would be perfect for my  cocktails."

Topping the gin off with tonic water, Paul grabbed a slice of lime from  the dish in front of him and wedged it onto the glass's rim. He signaled  to the waiter to come and collect the order.

Libby looked at him expectantly. There was something about her sincere  face and those beautiful, intoxicating eyes that made him want to help  her. He knew little about her business and nothing about her personally,  but she stirred in him some basal desire to protect.         

     



 

"You should talk to my brother." He hunted around for the business cards that Des had recently ordered but couldn't find them.

"That would be great."

He grabbed a napkin and a pen. "Here's his name and number. He'll be in tomorrow morning."

She plucked the napkin from his hand and finished the rest of her drink  before fishing around in her bag and pulling out a lipstick and mirror. A  woman with blue hair came up to the bar and placed a hand on Libby's  shoulder, her face creased with concern.

"Looks like the cavalry is here," Libby said.

Light glinted off the gold casing on the lipstick as she dragged the  color across her lush, full lips, her mouth opened into a small O shape.

Lipstick was high up on his list of things he wished girls wouldn't  bother with-it got everywhere, and it tasted gross. But watching Libby  apply it was the most erotic thing he'd seen in a long time. The way the  color made her lips look full and moist caused all the blood in his  body to rush south.

There is something seriously wrong with you. Lipsticks should not give you a hard-on.





Chapter Three

The following week Paul sat in his mother's kitchen, bracing himself for  their weekly "chat"-if you could call it that. Did guilt mongering  count as conversation?

"You're not getting any younger you know."

"I'm twenty-seven," Paul said, shaking his head. "You act like my whole life is over."

"I already had your brother and you by twenty-seven. I was married five  years." His mother's Italian accent had softened over the years, but it  always came back full strength when she engaged guilt mode. "My parents  brought us to Australia so we could make a better life."

"And I'm disrespecting that because I'm not married and reproducing?" He  leaned back in the rickety dining chair, wishing for the hundredth time  that his mother would replace the yellow plastic set and bring her  kitchen into the twenty-first century. She sat across from him, still  wearing the floral apron from when she'd cooked lunch. "Des is only just  getting married."

"Your brother is responsible," she said, reaching for the carafe of  water between them and refilling their glasses. "I knew he would settle  down, but he was concentrating on work. You … "

"What?"

"You have a new girl every week; it's not right." She shook her head,  the reading glasses lodged in her curly, dark hair sliding precariously.  "Don't think I'm stupid, Paolo. I know. You can't keep changing women  like you change … shoes."

Every Friday he had lunch with his mother before his long shift at  First. And every Friday she grilled him about why he wasn't in a  relationship, why he mooched off his brother, why he wasn't doing  anything with himself.

Apparently that now also included criticizing his dating choices.

"Seriously?"

"You think life is all fun and games."

For a moment she looked sad, the lines around her eyes deepening as she  frowned. That look killed him every damn time. Guilt sliced through him,  and he hated himself for not being what she wanted … not that he would  ever let her know that. On the outside he looked as stubborn as ever,  but her words tore at him. Shredding him up little by little.

This was a preview of things to come at Des's wedding. Sadie. His  cousin. His aunts. A reminder that he'd disappointed everyone by not  being … someone else.

"She's pregnant, you know," his mother said, interrupting his thoughts.

"Gracie?"

"No."

His heart stopped for a moment. "Who?"

"Sadie." She sighed. "Zia Marcella rang today, Sadie is sixteen weeks pregnant."

The air rushed out of his lungs as though someone had punched him in the  stomach. The thought of seeing her at the wedding was bad enough, but  knowing she was pregnant …

"I have to go." He pushed up from his chair and grabbed his leather jacket from the coat stand.

"Paolo." She stood, crossing her arms under her bosom. "I don't say these things to upset you."

He gritted his teeth, fighting the pounding in his head. He needed to  sort out this problem soon. He was not going to face his ex and her  smarmy husband alone while they basked in the glow of their perfect  life.

The life he had wanted.

"I'm not upset, Ma." He shrugged into his coat and swallowed against the lump in his chest. "I've got to get to work."

"I want you to have a good life." She looked up, her black-brown eyes shining.         

     



 

"I'm perfectly happy with my life."

At one point he was sure that was true, but now he constantly battled  restlessness and dissatisfaction. Pride wouldn't allow him to let anyone  else see that, though, and he wore his reputation as armor. Better to  be a womanizing playboy-as his mother had once called him-than to be a  loser.

He had to come up with a solution to this wedding situation. No way was  he going to be the Chapman failure again. He needed an idea, and quick.

"Is it so wrong that I want a few bambini in the house?"

He rolled his eyes and stepped backward. "No, there's nothing wrong with  that. But I won't play happy families. You'll have to wait until Gracie  gets knocked up."

"Don't say knocked up." She scowled.

"I gotta run." He turned, shoving a hand into one pocket to fish around for his car keys.

"Wait!" She scurried back into the kitchen and returned with a cardboard  tray filled with plastic containers and glass jars. "I made sauce and  some sweets. Chocolate cannoli and kraffen."

"The apricot ones?" His tastebuds were already cheering for the delicious doughnut-like pastries.

"Of course." She sent him away with another guilt trip about settling down and finding a wife.

By the time he arrived at First the sun beat down in full force. His  leather jacket felt like a straightjacket, stifling him, so he stripped  it off and threw it onto the back seat. With a cardboard tray of food  balanced in the crook of one arm, he stepped out into the sunshine and  kicked the car door closed behind him.

"It's already crazy in there." A voice caught his attention as he walked toward First.

Noah leaned against the side of the restaurant, shielding his eyes with  one arm. He looked as though he'd been put through the wringer.

"Busy?"

"Yep. Totally nuts." Noah shook his head. "You're going to be in for a treat tonight."

Great. Fridays were crazy enough anyway with several of the office  buildings in the block using First as their after-work watering hole.  There were also a few clubs in the area, which meant they got a lot of  younger customers having dinner and pre-drinks before a big night out.  Fridays were rowdy, and normally he thrived on the hustle and bustle of a  busy night's trade, but today his energy was failing him.

Probably because his head was filled with a confusing mix of his pregnant ex and the redhead from last week.

"Excellent," he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

"Oh, more treats from Mama Chapman?" Noah peered into the box and fell into step beside Paul.

"Don't even think about swiping any of this."

The bottles and containers were labeled with sticky notes and his  mother's looping, barely legible cursive. Most of the bottles were  labelled Des or Paul, but sure enough there was a bottle of pasta sauce  and a container of pastries that had "Noah" written on it.

"Score!" Noah reached in and grabbed his items, halting Paul so suddenly that the tray wobbled precariously.

He was about to let out a string of expletives when his attention caught a colorful flash.

"Tiger!" he called out, shoving the tray into Noah's hands.

Libby turned, shaking her head at him. "I told you not to call me that."

She had a box in her hands, a folder sticking out the top. Her mass of  copper hair was piled onto her head in a way that looked messy and yet  totally perfect. A bright red dress skimmed the tops of her knees,  swirling in the light breeze. Again she wore stupidly high heels that  looked sexy as all hell.

"How's the ankle?" He looked pointedly at her shoes.

Her lips melted into a sheepish smile. "I was housebound for a few days  but there wasn't any permanent damage … just a big dent in my pride."