Page 1 of Just This Once (Stone Family #2)

Dante

I hate it here.

Well, not here , but here with my family.

Celebrating my brother’s new engagement.

Listening to my father toast his precious baby boy.

Pretending I’m interested in seeing more pictures of my nieces.

Sure, they’re cute, but there’s only so much a person can hear about a toddler’s pooping habits without a shot of whiskey or two.

Yet I make one innuendo about sex, and I’m the “jackass” ruining dinner. Not my older brother and sister-in-law practically drawing a diagram of their kid’s shit. And definitely not my younger brother feeling up his fiancée under the table. Like we all can’t tell what he’s doing with his hand.

“To Johnny and Emily. Salute,” my father finally says, finishing up his long-winded speech. He lifts his glass of wine, and we all follow. “Salute.”

The quiet little blonde has no idea what she’s getting into with my family. Like the Corleones but with less murder.

Supposedly.

My grandfather told me stories. As the personal handyman for one of the five families, working late nights, being picked up in the custom Rolls-Royce and taken to houses to spackle holes and unclog fingers from toilets. You know…the usual.

I set my still nearly full glass of Pinot on the table and sling my arm on the back of my mother’s chair. She smiles at me, patting my knee as if I’m a fifth grader in need of a pep talk. “Your time’ll come. Don’t worry.”

“Not worried, Ma,” I reply, and she winks at me like we’re sharing some sarcastic joke. “I’m not.”

She merely winks again and sips from her drink. I roll my head back on my shoulders, sighing up at the ceiling, tiled with beveled tin, the color of a penny. It’s nice. Well-done.

The Tabby Cat is a bistro and wine bar with warm lighting, comfy seating, exposed brick walls, and a few plants placed around to make it feel almost like somebody’s living room.

I knew a couple of the guys who worked on the crew, and they said the owners were great people, so I’m happy to support a new business.

Especially one that treats its workers with respect.

As our server comes around to take our plates away, offering us the dessert menu, the ladies excuse themselves to use the bathroom, which of course gives Dad the opportunity to pull out his phone.

“How’s next week looking?”

Being Friday, our work week just ended, and I’d prefer not to have to think about the next job for at least twenty-four hours, but I’m the odd man out.

“Good. Got the final inspection for the medical center scheduled for Tuesday, and I’ve got meetings with three equipment vendors about the clean room specs,” Robbie says.

Johnny goes on about shaving off eight percent from the bottom line. None of them ever looks to me or asks my opinion.

My family—my father and brothers—think I don’t care about the business. They assume I’m not as driven as Robbie or as dutiful as Johnny, but I’m the one who has Moretti Construction in my blood. Literally. I’ve got the calluses and scars to prove it.

While my brothers went off to college, I started working right out of high school. No fancy finance or business degrees for me. I learned everything I know out on the jobsite, like my old man and his old man before him. And I’m damn good at what I do.

But try telling that to my father. Or Robbie. Or Johnny, the golden child who can do no wrong. To them, I’ll always be the screwup. The middle son who barely graduated high school, parties too much, and doesn’t take life seriously enough.

They’re not completely wrong. I like to have a good time, but when it comes to work, I’m as dedicated as they come.

I’m the one up at six a.m., on-site by seven, and coordinating work with dozens of employees and subcontractors.

I’m the one with a scar on my forearm from a circular saw kickback.

I’ve got a permanent groove across my right knuckles from a slipped hammer.

And let’s not forget the chunk taken out of my calf from a falling pipe.

But none of that means anything because I’m the idiot who can’t read. I’m merely the grunt.

Though I’d rather be a grunt than an asswipe, like Johnny with his wandering gaze. When he shoots a smile at a group of girls at the bar, I kick him under the table. “What the fuck, man?”

“ What ?” he asks. As if he doesn’t know.

“Are we or are we not here because you put a ring on your girl’s finger?”

He shrugs. “Yeah, but I’m not blind.”

“Also not husband material either.”

“Hey.” Dad sets down his phone to protect his favorite. “Leave the kid alone.”

I roll my eyes, ready to leave it alone until Johnny comes back with, “More husband material than you are. Least I’m engaged and not living at home.”

I pitch forward in my chair. “Listen, you little?—”

“Enough,” Dad cuts in. “We’re here for a nice family dinner. Everyone settle down. Johnny, you might not be blind, but neither is your future wife. Treat her with some respect.”

Which is ironic because he’s cheated on my mother several times and clearly doesn’t care about respecting much besides money.

Johnny smirks at me. He’s been getting away with this shit since we were kids.

I try not to be bitter. I try not to let it get to me, but there are times when I can’t slap on a smile and pretend.

Not when my douchebag brother wants to rub it in my face about how my girlfriend broke up with me.

Since then, I’ve had to move back in with Mom and Dad until I find a place of my own.

It’s not a big deal. People do it all the time. But according to my father, I’m the only one.

By the time the ladies make their way back to the table, I’m ready to head out, yet Mom insists on ordering dessert.

Dad orders another bottle of wine, and I blow out a breath as I sip on my still-full red, ignoring the side conversations that I’m not privy to—my mother and Robbie and my father and Johnny.

There’s a thing in Italian families. Firstborn sons.

They’re saints. Living deities. Robert Jr. can absolutely do no wrong. He wouldn’t either. Would never dream of it.

He’s perfect. My mother still has a lock of his hair from when he was a baby and refers to him as my Robbie. I mean…I guess in some cases, she does need to specify because when we ge t together with the extended family, there are approximately fifteen Roberts and twenty-three Michaels.

So, we’ve got the firstborn that mothers worship. And we’ve got the baby. The spoiled one. The one who will always win because by the time parents get to them, they’re tired. That last kid doesn’t have rules. They’re given whatever they want to be kept quiet.

And that’s Johnny to a T.

Except with the backing of our dad. If my mother claimed Robbie, my father wanted to claim his too. And it certainly wasn’t going to be me. So I’m left out of the loop and any whispered conversations.

Sure, my mother loves me and insists on doing my laundry and tells me I’m not eating enough and makes me a lasagna to put in the freezer “just in case.” And yeah, I think my dad loves me.

He’s not told me otherwise, but he’s also never made it clear either.

My parents have given me everything I’ve ever needed, a roof over my head and food in my belly. But I’ve never been chosen .

The only times my parents ever pulled me aside for solo conversations were to tell me I needed to “smarten the fuck up” or to “make sure you don’t make me a grandmother before you walk down the aisle.” Naturally, I’m not super into these family dinners, where I’m mostly on my own.

To keep myself busy, I like to play a game.

I make up lives and stories for the people I see.

Like, the couple in the corner who are both on their cell phones, not having spoken a word to each other since I started watching them.

I imagine they’ve been together so long they’re bored with each other.

They think there is nothing new to learn and instead scroll social media.

He’s probably looking at sports scores while she double-taps photos of girls she went to high school with who now have three kids and drive minivans .

I slide my wineglass from one hand to the other, twirling the stem between my fingers as I skirt my gaze around to the open kitchen window that shows the chefs working.

They fry and chop, passing one another in their black coats.

I imagine the guy laughing has the hots for the server who stands in front of him and waits for her plates.

He’s still vying for her attention as she walks away with an eye roll that is more flirtatious than serious.

I imagine she’ll give in sooner rather than later.

Then I shift and spot three women at the bar, including one who looks awfully familiar. I sit forward, studying her, the perfectly styled golden hair and waving hand as she talks. A real-life Barbie, if Barbie were five foot nothing with a penchant for talking nonstop.

Just as I’m about to get up from the table to say hi, the crème br?lée arrives along with the dark chocolate mousse, and I’m waylaid. So, I accept the mousse and fake interest in my sister-in-law’s story about how my nieces learned to count…or something.

I watch my old friend Clara chat, laughing and smiling exactly like I remember.

She moved here to West Chester, Pennsylvania, in our junior year of high school.

She was the new kid and helped me pass math, while I—the popular jock—helped convince her parents she was straight by taking her to all the dances and prom so she could make out with her girlfriend while we were there.

It wasn’t a hardship. She was cool and sweet, and it was too bad we lost contact.

I smile to myself remembering the dumb shit we did back then and absently dip my spoon into the mousse, sticking it into my mouth as I let my attention drift to Clara’s side, where a Black woman sits with her back to me, but clearly listening intently, her hand on Clara’s thigh.

On the other side of Clara, facing me, is a third woman.

She’s white with narrowed eyes, pursed lips, and one long leg crossed over the other.

Bittersweet dark chocolate overwhelms my taste buds as I mentally trace her curves, the side of her thigh and hip revealed from her position on the stool.

Her white button-up is both incredibly alluring and modest in how it shows nothing and still everything, the top few buttons open, revealing her collarbone, the shadow of her cleavage, and the nip at her waist, where it’s tucked into her jeans.

Her feet are capped off with plain black shoes, her left one barely clinging on as she swings her foot back and forth.

With her oval-shaped face, smooth skin, and a tan like mine, I briefly wonder if she’s Italian. My mother would love if she’s Italian. Her dark brows are slightly angled down, like she’s in a perpetual state of judgment, even though her lips tick up in amusement at whatever Clara’s saying.

I have another bite of my dessert, admiring her long fingers as she wraps them around her glass and takes a sip, tilting her head back.

Her hair is short, cut above her shoulders and curled in that way women do that probably takes hours but appears like she just got out of bed.

It’s dark brown at the top, transitioning down to light blond, with every color of brown mixed in.

I’d like to run my fingers through it, find and name every single hue. Honey. Gold. Walnut. Cedar. Coffee.

Dark Chocolate .

I take another bite and try to rip my gaze away, but it’s impossible.

In fact, I don’t know why everyone isn’t staring. How can you ignore royalty?

She sits so primly, her chin pointed and lips sharp when she speaks, as if what she says is final.

Lord, I wish I could hear what she’s saying.

Off with her head !

But Clara is laughing, so my lady is clearly funny.

Finishing up my dessert, I lick my lips, the intense taste lingering on my tongue, and the check can’t come fast enough. I need to talk to her.

I offer hugs and handshakes, saying goodnight to my family when we all stand, and I head off to the bathroom while they exit. I use the facilities and check my reflection, swiping my palm over my face, my five-o’clock shadow grainy on my jaw, then up to comb my fingers through my hair. Good enough.

Stepping back out onto the floor, I take a breath, slap on my best smile, then amble over to the bar. To get a taste of this bittersweet duchess.