“And who is this handsome young man?” she asks, even though she already knows full wellexactlywho he is.
Suppressing an eye-roll, I say, “Mom, I told you—”
“Mrs. Gallagher,” he says smoothly. “Armani Bellanti. It’s an honor to finally meet you. Please accept this bottle of my family’s wine as a token of my appreciation for you hosting us.”
He gives her a warm smile, something I wasn’t sure he was capable of, and holds out the wine. But my mom ignores it and throws her arms around him instead. Unlike me, Armani gives her a double armed hug back, taking the whole thing in stride.
Huh. He is being exceptionally polite. His demeanor is wholly different than anything he’s exhibited before, even when he’s showing me his extremely rare softer side. Either he’s a really good liar, or he has a weak spot for mothers. Both seem possible.
“Please, call me Cassandra,” my mom says, fluttering her lashes at him like a schoolgirl.
Armani looks between us and then says, “So the two of you share a name, then?”
“We do, indeed,” I answer dryly.
“That was her mother’s stupid idea.”
Cortisol floods my veins at the sound of my father’s voice coming from inside the house. I’m sure he’s sunk into his tartan print recliner, feet propped up on a pillow, a can of beer in one hand. Coors Banquet, I’d bet my life on it. He’s a creature of habit.
My mother smiles tersely and calls back, “Phil, we have company.”
It’s her way of warning him to behave. It never works.
“I’m aware, Cass. You only reminded me a thousand times today.”
Baring her teeth in a clench-jawed smile, Mom makes eye contact with me. Her brows rise, warning me to watch my tongue. If I set Dad off, then I have to deal with him. That’s the rule. Except, it takes absolutely nothing of any significance to set my father off.
“Come on in, Armani,” she says brightly. “I’ll introduce you to Cassandra’s—”
“Candi, you mean?” Armani interjects.
“Of course. To Candi’s father,” Mom corrects. She takes the wine from him and nods approvingly as she scans the label, as if she knows anything about wine. “This way.”
Holy shit. My mom just called meCandi. I’ve tried so freaking hard to get her to switch from Cassandra ever since college, but she flat out refuses. By this point, I’ve pretty much given up, and just being here has me mentally reverting back to my mousy, nonconfrontational younger self all over again. But Armani just stepped in and validated me without even thinking about it. He just earned some serious points in the fake boyfriend game.
I let them walk ahead of me, but at the last second Armani turns to grab my hand, tugging me along with him. Plastering a smile on my face, I spy Dad in his chair, beer in hand. He’s got his feet on the floor, which tells me he’s about to get up. He’s scowling at the evening news.
“Phil, this is Candi’s gentleman friend,” Mom says as we all crowd the front room, aka the den. “Armani Bellanti. He brought us some wine.”
She holds up the bottle and Dad drags his eyes from the TV to look us over and then takes a drink of his beer.
“I know who he is,” he says.
Armani appears completely unruffled. He doesn’t approach my father or offer to shake his hand, just politely says, “Pleasure to meet you, sir.”
My dad looks at him then, actually locks eyes with him. Holding my breath, I watch them regard each other like two alpha lions trying to determine who is the weakest. My father is a big man. He’s not just large in girth, he’s tall—and built of solid muscle with thick biceps and strong thighs thanks to genetics and many years of manual labor at his manufacturing job. Yet when I look at him now, compared to Armani, it’s clear to me that Dad is the weaker man.
Armani radiates danger and control. I have no doubt he could take my father down without breaking a sweat, or even creasing his pants. My father’s presence is mean, hulking, bordering on violent sometimes…but Armani’s is just pure, rich danger. Instinctively, I shiver.
Eyes sliding away, my father returns to his drink. “Looks like you put on a few pounds,” he says, and it’s clearly directed at me. “What’d I always tell you about getting fat? This guy in the fancy suit won’t be around for long, you keep that up.”
My cheeks burn but I say nothing. Neither does Mom, per usual. Dad isn’t someone you talk back to. Besides, he might be right—Armani mightnotbe around for long. Though it won’t be because of my body type.
“Why don’t we go meet the boys?” Mom says to Armani. She’s an expert at both ignoring awkward moments and quickly changing the subject, as need dictates.
“Good idea,” I say, starting to turn toward the hallway. And then I feel the slide of Armani’s palm over my hip as he gives a little squeeze.
“You’re wrong, Mr. Gallagher,” Armani says, his voice clear and unwaveringly steady. “Candi is a strikingly beautiful woman. Just the way she is. Inside and out. I’m lucky to have her, and frankly, I plan to do everything in my power to keep her.”
