Ben smiles at me like I just passed the only test he's ever cared about.
The storm breaks then—forks clatter, glasses raise.
Naturally, I drop my spoon straight onto the floor before I even start eating.
Ducking under the table, I mutter apologies into the fringe of the tablecloth, and when I pop back up, Ben's hand is braced against the edge, close enough to shield me from hitting my head.
"I should bubble-wrap you," he says, fighting his smirk.
His gaze sharpens into that magnetic pull and he leans so it's only between us: "Actually, I've got a helmet upstairs. Matte black. Sexy."
"No. I want your hand to protect me. Otherwise, I might die in the stupidest way possible."
"True. Protecting you is already a full-time job. Lucky for you, I'm devastatingly committed."
"Good." My fingers squeeze his thigh under the table, tight enough that a startled, low rumble escapes his chest.
When I squeeze tighter, he closes his eyes and murmurs against my ear, "Careful, Emma. If you keep your hand there, I might have to pull you back in that bathroom and add one more dish to your menu."
I bite my lip, but keep teasing him because I know he can't do anything here.
Then Paul clears his throat pointedly and my hand flies back to my lap.
When I glance at him, red all over, his face screams, "gotcha."
Ben gives him a smirk, and Paul smirks back—their usual silent bro-code conversation.
Then Ben bites into his steak and, unfazed, asks, "How was Italy?"
Paul shrugs his lips, chewing too. "Loved it. Except the sun gave me stage-two burns."
Ben makes a face. "How do you even get burns in November?"
"I'm as white as it gets," Paul says, shrugging. Then snorts a laugh. "The priest said it was the holy light, though."
We all laugh—except Mara, who's busy meddling with the bow on her dress. She doesn't notice even when Paul sneezes and the whole table blesses him in chorus.
"You should bless your husband," Ben scolds her with thatbig-brother authority, his eyebrow raised.
Mara shoves the bow aside, frustration flickering across her face, then lifts her chin, and gives Ben a look. "Can you see who sits next to him? He's already been blessed."
Ben rolls his eyes, but Paul chuckles—the man's hopelessly in love, defending her with every grin.
Then Paul launches into Italy stories about piazzas, wine from Montepulciano, gelato, and all the reasons why they should move there.
"You aren't moving anywhere," Carmela cuts him off with her quiet authority. "Now even Ben is moving back finally."
I jerk my gaze to Ben, whose head whips at Carmela.
"Mamma. Un attimo, per favore," he snaps, instantly exasperated."What did I tell you? We had this conversation."
Her shrug is all wide-eyed virtue. "What? You said Emma loves New York. Don't you, Emma?" She turns to me and the table goes quiet.
My pulse trips and I stutter. "I do. I mean—"
"Good," she cuts in, smiling, then looks at Ben like I just proved her point. "We do Sunday lunch every week, like this. Wouldn't you like that?"
I give her a small, fond smile. "I would love that."
