I shrug.
She should know better than anyone the complicated relationships in my family.
Yes, I would do just about anything for my brothers.
Yes, we’ve lived under the same roof for nearly our entire lives.
But our father raised us with the distinct belief that rivalry would drive us to excel better than camaraderie.
So, while I love my brothers fiercely, I wouldn’t exactly call us affectionate. “We tolerate each other,” I joke, and I’m rewarded with the harmonious sound of Stephanie’s laughter.
“Well, we’re glad you’re back. Would you like to join us for dinner?” she offers, combing her fingers through Jackson’s unruly curls to indicate the “us” in that invitation.
Unless she’s referring to her husband. But I have yet to catch a glimpse of him at dinnertime.
“You’re sure your husband won’t mind?” I ask. Not that I give a damn, when I intend on stealing her back regardless, but I can’t say as much.
Jackson frowns, his head tilting back again so he can give his mother a look of confusion, and Stephanie blushes all the way up to the roots of her hair.
“Oh, um.” Cringing as she glances down at her son, Stephanie unleashes an apologetic smile when she looks back up at me.
The brilliance of it could make me forgive her even before she’s said what she’s done to deserve it. And I just pray she’s not about to rescind her offer.
“About that. I don’t… actually have a husband. Sorry, I just… Being a single mom can feel vulnerable sometimes, so it doesn’t hurt to let strangers think there’s a man in the house.”
The relief that washes through me is so intense, I couldn’t care less that she lied.
She’s not married.
That fact makes me so happy, it’s near impossible to keep the emotion inside.
But I do my best to keep my cool as I grin like a complete fool.
“Dinner sounds nice,” I agree.
9
JANE
Something about Gio feels insanely familiar—like, somehow, even if this is only the second time we’ve met, I’ve known him my whole life.
Maybe it’s his easy smile or the soft warmth in his light-hazel eyes.
I’ve heard that people tend to find attractive members of the opposite sex more familiar—an odd phenomenon but one that might explain why I have this nagging feeling that I recognize him from somewhere.
But as he settles into the chair where Jackson set a place for him, I can’t put my finger on it.
“It smells delicious,” he says, turning his head to follow the casserole dish of lasagna that I carry to the table.
“Thanks.” I smile, leaning past him, my hip lightly brushing his shoulder and making my stomach flip-flop as I place the steaming tray on the hot pad at the center of the table. “I get the noodles from this local Italian market. They’re made fresh everyday, so I don’t even have to cook them before they go into the oven.”
“Do you make the sauce yourself?” he asks as I take my seat across from Jackson.
“Please, guests first,” I insist, handing him the knife and spatula before answering his question.
My speech falters as I’m caught off guard when he cuts a slice of lasagna and takes Jackson’s plate, serving my son—then me—before himself.
“N–No,” I stammer, trying to collect my scattered thoughts to remember his question. “I mean, I do add a bit to the sauce—some garlic, sage, rosemary for flavor, and minced carrots, zucchini, mushrooms, and ground beef to make the meal a bit healthier—but the sauce comes from a jar. I don’t really have time to make it from scratch after I get home from work.”
