Page 2 of Diego

“You’re laughing.”

He clears his throat before looking back at me with an expression of such exaggerated brotherly concern that I almost admire the effort. “I’m thinking.”

“About?”

“How fortunate you are to have family.”

I give him a deadpan look, and that finishes whatever restraint he had left. A quiet laugh escapes him before he presses his lips together again, and I seriously consider reminding him that I know where he lives.

Unfortunately, threatening to show up at his house would only reinforce the fact that I currently do not have one of my own.

The boys’ house is large enough. More than large enough, technically.

Matteo, Tomasso, Edoardo, Dante, and Alessio have been living there together for a while now, and no one has managed to destroy it, which is an achievement considering the collective judgment of five unmarried men in their twenties. I’ve been there enough times to know exactly what I’m getting into, though, and there is a considerable difference between spending an evening with them and waking up under the same roof every morning.

I am accustomed to silence when I want it. I am accustomed to coming home at whatever hour I please, dropping my keys wherever I please, pouring myself a drink, and hearing nothing unless I decide I want to.

The boys’ house rarely produces anything resembling silence. Someone is always awake, someone is always eating, and someone is always coming through the door or heading out of it. Five men means five schedules, and a rotation of friends, coworkers, delivery drivers, and women.

Now there will be me in the middle of it.

I rub a hand over my jaw. “It’ll be fine.”

“Of course.”

“They have space.”

“Plenty.”

“It won’t be that bad.” I'm trying to convince myself, of course.

Lorenzo’s mouth twitches again, and I point at him before he can say anything. “Do not.”

“I didn’t say anything.”

“I know what you’re thinking.”

“That you’re about to discover what it’s like to live with five single men in their twenties?”

“Yes.”

“Then, yes, that is exactly what I was thinking.”

I exhale through my nose. “They’re adults. They work. They’re responsible.”

Lorenzo lifts one shoulder, which is somehow more insulting than if he had argued.

I stare at him until he finally relents. “Mostly.”

“That’s good enough.”

“For you, perhaps.”

“You raised two of them.”

“I’m aware,” he says, still amused.

“Then you’re partially responsible for whatever happens to me.”