“I’m not nervous.”

“Why do you look like you’re about bolt, then? I gotta say, seein’ you runnin’ down the street in that bathrobe would be somethin’.”

I scowl. “Do you know how hard it is not to insult you right now?”

“If I answer with, ‘As hard as my cock was an hour ago’ do I get a bonus prize?”

“Good grief. You’re really about twelve years old, aren’t you?”

He winks, laughing. I roll my eyes at his easygoing manner. Although I guess it really is easy for him. He’s already flat-out declared that his fine ass is mine.

“Listen.” He leans across the table, his arms bulging from beneath his shirt. “You know where I am, babe. I’ve told you what I want. This is down to you right now. The ball is in your court entirely, but I need to know something. Whether it’s yes or no or a damn maybe—I need to know if you want this even a fraction as much as I do.”

I swallow and pick at my sleeve. “Honestly?”

“Honestly.”

“I don’t know,” I admit quietly. “We don’t work well together, Drake. I don’t want to throw myself into a personal relationship with you if our working one will make it suffer. And right now, we both know that the working one trumps our personal one, doesn’t it? I’m a cop dressed up as a private investigator, because that’ll always be in my blood.”

He reaches across the table, his fingers toying with mine as he lifts my hand. “Then try,” he replies simply, sliding our fingers together. “We can compartmentalize, sweetheart. The work relationship is left there. The personal one is left here.”

“We both know that won’t happen.” Yet here I am, staring at our clasped hands, at his skin, which is tanner than my natural light olive. At his fingers, long and rough, strong as they hold our palms together. “We’re both too…grudgey.”

“Grudgey, huh? Is that another word for stubborn?”

“Shut up.” I look away for a second but smile. Damn him. My eyes find their way back to his, and I suck my bottom lip into my mouth. There are hope and intensity and a glint so fucking bright that I can’t do anything but take a deep breath.

Throwing caution to the wind is risky, but sometimes, it’s the right thing to do.

“Okay,” I whisper. “I’ll try. But I’m warning you now, compartmentalization isn’t my strong suit.”

“I know, and I am completely prepared for you to tear me a new asshole next week for my behavior this morning.”

“Which you still didn’t apologize for, by the way.”

“Nonna invited me to dinner tonight. If I come, does that count?”

Well… “Are we going together? Because if we are, then yes, because she’ll pull out the wedding scrapbook for me she’s had for the last five years and ask your opinions on various things.”

Drake leans forward, his smile lopsided but mischievous. “Can I veto it all?”

“Even the Italian three-course dinner?”

“Even that.”

I purse my lips to the side, but those butterflies are back again, and before I can do a thing, I find myself replying, “Go for it.”

“Liliana!” Mom yells, something slamming down. “One day, you will let me cook dinner for my own children!”

“No! You-a no cook-a!” Nonna fires back. “You-a give-a packet pasta! Packet pasta!”

Oh, God, she’s gone all shrill.

“There’s nothing wrong with packet pasta! You’re a food snob!”

“You cook-a Italiano, you cook-a it right-a!”

I look at Drake. “I feel like my asking this is getting old, but can you shoot me?”

He laughs. “It isn’t that bad.”

I grab the door handle. “Wait.” I push down, open the door, and wince.

“Why I ever agreed to let you live with me, I don’t know! You’re a complete pain in my backside, Liliana!”

“You dis-a-respect-a my food!”

“Oh, I don’t care about your food, just like you refuse to eat Southern meals! Why should I give a crap about yours?”

“Because it-a is-a Italiano!”

“Yeah, well, in the last lasagna you made, the mince was dry!”

Nonna gasps and screams, in Italian of course, “You take that back now!”

“No!” Mom yells, understanding but refusing to speak it.

I lean back against Drake. “Still think it isn’t that bad?”

“Holy shit. Is your family secretly the inspiration behind Jersey Shore?”

“It’s likely,” I admit, stepping into the building.

“Where’s your dad?” Drake asks as they continue to fight, Nonna yelling in rapid Italian and Mom deliberately shouting back with the most Southern accent she can muster.

“In the front room, watching television with my brothers, and pretending he can’t hear them.” I shrug and walk into the front room, where, to my incredible lack of surprise, the situation I just described is reality.

Aria, Trent’s ten-year-old daughter looks up at me. “Nonna’s sayin’ bad words again, Auntie Noelle.”

“Nonna always says bad words, baby,” Trent responds for me. “Ignore her. You know better than to use them.”

“Cazzo!” Silvio, his four-year-old, says. “Cazzo!”

“Cazzo, no!” Trent and I say at the same time.

I’m smart enough to clap my hand over my mouth and look away instantly as Alison sits up.

“Silvio! No. That’s a naughty word.”

He grins sassily. “I like it.”

“It’s bad. Say it again and I’m taking all of your stickers from today.”

He opens his dark eyes, his long lashes only extenuating his shocked gaze. “Sorry, Mama.”

Alison raises her eyebrows.

“Sorry, Daddy,” he adds, looking appropriately ashamed.

Trent’s eyebrows pull together in a guilty look.

Alison leans forward to grab his arm. “Don’t you dare,” she hisses.

“What did I miss?” Brody asks, slamming the door behind him. “Whoa—who let Mom and Nonna out on day release together?”

Dad snorts from his chair in the corner. “Satan got bored.”

“Don’t let Nonna hear you say that,” I tell him. “Last time I mentioned the s-word, she lectured me for fifteen minutes on saying the devil’s name.”

“Did she miss the point where you called her Satan?” Devin asks.

“I’m still alive, aren’t I?”

“Antonio, I’m going to kill her!” Mom storms into the living room. “Get that woman out of my kitchen right now!”

Dad focuses on the television, only the twitch of his fingers on his whisky glass giving any indication that he heard her.

“I’m sorry for this,” I mutter back to Drake. “I got this, Mom.”

She looks up, tucking hair behind her ear. “Drake! It’s lovely to see you.”

Just like that, everyone stares at us. Trent glares. Dad grins. Mom beams. Brody smirks. Devin lifts one eyebrow. Alison winks at me.

“I’m really sorry for this,” I say, amending my statement before I grab his forearm and tug him into the hallway.

Nonna is muttering about pasta and sauces and the like in Italian, stirring the spaghetti with far too much vigor. If she isn’t careful, she’s going to take her own eye out with that wooden spoon.

“Hey, Nonna. Look who accepted your invitation for dinner.”

She glances up, fire in her eyes, but it soon dissipates when she sees Drake standing behind me. Now, she looks like I told her that I’m getting married.

“Drake! Is-a lovely to see-a you!” She walks toward him, her arms wide open.

He glances at me in alarm as she wraps her arms around his waist. “Hey, Liliana.” He returns the hug with one arm.

Nonna steps back, and with her dark eyes wide and her lips turned up mischievously, she looks between us. She does it so obviously that it’s deliberate, and I lightly bite my tongue so I don’t snap at her. I don’t want to give her the satisfaction of knowing she’s bugging me already.

I choose to grab a bottle of water from the fridge instead of continue her little eye games.

“So,” she says to us, turning back to her cooking. “You come-a together?”

I choke on my water and thump my fist into my chest. “Excuse me?”