Then all eyes turn expectantly to Matteo, who hands Dad an elegantly wrapped box.
“This isn’t much,” he says with uncharacteristic modesty, “but Raven mentioned you appreciate good scotch.”
Dad unwraps it carefully, his eyes widening when he reveals the Macallan 18 Sherry Oak bottle nestled in velvet.
“This is… exceptional,” he says, voice dropping to a reverent tone I’ve only heard him use for top-shelf liquor and particularly good fishing spots. “We’ll have to open this tonight.”
“I’d be honored,” Matteo replies.
Something passes between them—a look of mutual respect that makes my throat suddenly tight. My father has never reacted this way to anyone I’ve brought home before. Then again, Matteo is my first actual boyfriend, a fact that Leo hasn’t stopped needling me about all day.
“Who wants cake?” Mom asks, breaking the moment before I can get embarrassingly emotional over what is essentially two men bonding over expensive alcohol.
As she heads inside to retrieve Alina’s masterpiece, Dad leans over to Matteo. “You picked a good one, Matteo. Not just the scotch.” His eyes flick to me. “My daughter’s never brought anyone home before. That means something.”
I pretend to be deeply fascinated by a nearby butterfly to hide the flush creeping up my neck.
The afternoon mellows into early evening, the summer sun casting long shadows across the lawn as we demolish the masterpiece cake.
I watch Matteo lick frosting from his fork with the same precise attention he applies to everything, and have to physically restrain myself from climbing him like a tree right there.
Instead, I steal a bit of icing with my finger and deliberately lick it clean, maintaining eye contact. His eye darkens, a promisewritten in the slight tightening of his jaw. Two can play this game.
“More cake, anyone?” my mother offers, completely oblivious to the silent filth happening across her pristine tablecloth.
“God no,” I groan, leaning back in my chair. “If I eat another bite, you’ll have to roll me back to the hotel.”
Nodding, Mom agrees and suggests we clear the table and go for a walk, which everyone’s onboard with.
We stroll along sidewalks I’ve traveled since I was old enough to walk, past houses where I learned to ride bikes, skinned knees, and planned teenage rebellions. Every crack in the concrete feels like an old friend, each street sign a bookmark in the story of growing up.
Dad leads our little procession, gesturing as he points out new additions to Mr. Peterson’s garden or the Thompsons’ controversial choice to paint their shutters teal. Leo and Ollie walk ahead with him, their laughter drifting back to us in comfortable waves.
Matteo’s hand is warm in mine, his thumb occasionally brushing over my knuckles in a gesture so casually possessive it makes my heart stutter.
“This is surreal,” I murmur, just for him. “You, here, in the land of HOA regulations and neighborhood watch patrols.”
He glances down at me, the streetlight catching the edge of his eyepatch. “Afraid I’ll corrupt the local soccer moms?”
“God, I hope so. They could use a little corrupting.” I nudge his shoulder with mine. “Mrs. Abernathy at the end of the block has been clutching her pearls since nineteen-ninety-two.”
Matteo chuckles, the sound low and private. “Your dad’s been pointing out potential security weaknesses in every house we’ve passed.”
I blink in surprise. “He has?”
“Mhmm. Sliding glass doors, insufficient porch lighting, unsecured basement windows.” His mouth quirks. “I think we might have more in common than you realized.”
The thought warms me from the inside out—my overprotective, spreadsheet-loving father finding kinship with my arson-enthusiast boyfriend. There’s probably a metaphor in there somewhere, but I’m too content to dig for it.
My mother falls into step beside us, looping her arm through mine. “So, Matteo, I hear you own a nightclub?”
“I do,” he confirms smoothly.
Dad turns back to us. “I’ve been meaning to visit Cleveland properly. Last time was just that business conference years ago, remember Vicky? Terrible hotel but excellent steakhouse.”
“Oh yes, with the bread pudding you wouldn’t stop talking about for weeks,” Mom agrees.
I’m about to chime in when Leo and Ollie suddenly go rigid ahead of us. They stop so abruptly that Dad nearly collides with them.
