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Say a Little Prayer: Nel nome del Padre, e del Figlio, e dello Spirito Santo, Amen!

I’m easily distracted by shiny objects.

So when I stumble upon a glittery box outside the kitchen with stacks of rose-gold-ribboned scrolls addressed to everyone at the villa, I’m obviously going to snoop.

For research purposes only.

Finding my name, I unfurl it, and a stack of thick embossed tickets and euros fall out and onto the floor. Matty scrambles to scoop them up quickly before we’re caught, mumbling curses in Italian at my feet.

Fielder Lemon Itinerary

Monday –

Arrival to Villa Limone Regale

Welcome Dinner

Tuesday –

Appointment at Massimo Andreozzi (Tailor for Wedding)

Amalfi Lemon Groves Tour + Lunch

Wednesday –

Free Day!

Thursday –

Yacht Excursion around the Amalfi Coast

Friday –

Rehearsal

Rehearsal Dinner at La Sponda in Positano

Saturday –

Lemon-DeLuca Wedding!

Pictures Start at 10:30 AM

Ceremony at 1 PM

Cocktail Hour 2 PM –3 PM

Dinner at 4 PM

Party All Night!

Sunday –

Relax at the Villa

Monday –

Fly back to the States!

Sienna always was extremely detail-oriented. Each one is a list of activities for the next four days leading up to the wedding, including what looks like important tickets.

I cross-reference. Because Ricky and me are man of honor and best man, respectively, we’re scheduled to do a lot of the same activities. Which would be the perfect opportunity to get him to fall back in love with me, except Cam is scheduled for all the same activities, too.

Matty hands me the stack of tickets and euros, and I sift through them like Pokémon cards: lemon farm tour, yacht excursion, a bunch of vouchers for meals, snacks, and drinks at local vendors and restaurants between Amalfi and Positano that Topher and Sienna prepaid.

I’m getting the idea that most of the places around here are more old school than back home in the States, which could actually work in my favor.

What if something were to happen to something on Cam’s itinerary?

“ Fielder, no,” Matty says with a wily grin.

“I can’t, right?”

“Nobody would know,” Matty argues.

“Dude, you’re supposed to talk me out of this.”

“Who said that?” Matty scratches the top of his head. “I won’t say anything. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil.” He turns his back toward me, but, with his elbow, pushes the glittery box toward me.

Leaving mine undone in a pile to the side, I rummage through until I find Cam’s.

Unraveling Cam’s scroll, I fumble with the stack of Cam’s tickets and euros, trying to decide what to do. My heart beats so loud and fast it drowns out every other noise in the villa, and I barely register Matty telling me someone is coming.

I grab the ticket to the lemon grove tour because quite frankly that sounds the most romantic, and Ricky is more a farm guy than a boat guy. It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world if Cam’s ticket just so happens to be lost, right?

“Field, hurry,” Matty whispers frantically as I shove Cam’s stolen ticket into my pants and quickly roll everything else back up into the correct order, tie up the rose-gold ribbon, and get it back in the box.

A woman in a chef’s coat with jet-black hair tied back into a tight bun slides beside me.

“Che cosa?! Scusi, the others are in the main dining room.” Her accent is thick, on the edge of business and pleasure.

Her expression is stony, her glance making my back straighten.

With one swift word, she could probably have me executed on the spot.

“Hi, sorry—” I take my scroll and quickly place it back into the box. “I’m—”

“Fielder!” Bianca, Ricky’s mom, shouts from behind the chef. “Chef Vittoria, these boys are Topher’s cousins, Fielder and Matty.”

Matty cheeses hard, which usually works on anyone of any gender. But for Chef Vittoria, no dice. She’s glaring. Hard.

I don’t know if it’s from the gentle crime I just committed, the ticket burning a hole in my pocket, or seeing Ricky’s mom properly for the first time in over a year, but my nerves are shot and it takes all of me not to cry.

Bianca maneuvers past Chef Vittoria with ease, gives Matty a quick hug, then turns toward me, her eyes wet. “Fielder.” She nods, acknowledging everything that can’t possibly be said. “We’ve missed you, son.”

I want to tell her I’ve missed her too, and I even open my mouth to say the words, but nothing squeaks out. It’s like I’ve lost the power of speech.

She pulls me into a hug. “I know, but we’re so happy you’re here.”

I nod because I can’t say anything else. I close my eyes and allow myself to give in to the hug because it feels like Ricky is hugging me.

Don’t cry, damnit.

When she pulls back, a little mascara is trickling down her cheeks. “I just did my makeup.” She lets out a boisterous laugh that fills the room. “So much for waterproof.”

“Is all bad,” Chef Vittoria chimes in before tossing Bianca a makeup bag. “In my line of work, you find the good stuff.”

Matty and I follow them back into the kitchen, and I’m hit with the incredible smells wafting from the oven and stovetop.

“So tell me,” Bianca says as she tends to her face. “What have you been up to? Your mom told me you’ve been making some really good money from Clock.”

She did? I clear my throat. “I’m a food blogger with over a million followers.

And I’m verified.” As if this matters to her.

“I like to think I have a good palate. I love food. I’m a foodie!

” Cringe. “Only thing I’m good at, is critiquing food.

” I need to stop rambling. I nod toward the massive, covered pot on the stovetop. “Zuppa di pesce?”

“Zuppa di moscardini.” Chef Vittoria grabs the lid, and my cheeks heat in embarrassment.

Matty starts filming, though I’m not sure that’s a good move.

Bianca looks on, intrigued.

Before opening the pot, the chef says, “Tell me, food blogger, what do you smell?”

“Garlic, for sure. Roasted tomatoes. The tang in the air—red wine.”

Her expression doesn’t soften, exactly, but she removes the lid. “Dai!” She motions for me to move in closer before snapping her fingers for her sous chef, who instinctively hands her a bowl and a ladle. With one swift stir, she scoops a small amount of the liquid into the bowl. “Mangia.”

The liquid in the bowl is deep red—it’s not watery, but it’s not thick, either. One baby octopus tentacle, almost purple from the wine, peeks out from the surface. She hands me a spoon.

I go straight for the tentacle; it’s so tender it cuts like butter.

“Va bene, eh?” she asks, kissing the air.

“Molto bene!” I say into the camera on Matty’s phone.

“The key to a perfect zuppa di moscardini is to do a quick sear on the octopus, then simmer until it’s tender, like this, so it soaks up all that flavor from the broth.

” I sip from the mouth of the spoon, making sure to get the velvety broth with the meat.

“So many layers! The vegetables are so fresh, the octopus so velvety. That rich umami. The garlic, the warmth of . . . chili?”

“Sì, you do have quite a palate.” A smirk twitches at the corner of her mouth.

“This is beyond.” My eyes roll in the back of my head. “This dinner is going to be bananas, Chef Vittoria.” Matty zooms in on her embroidered jacket.

“Grazie,” she says.

“Prego,” I say. “Do you mind if I come back one night this week and film you cooking, try your food on camera? I could give you some really great exposure. Blow you up. You could become huge!”

You ever regret something as the words are coming out of your mouth?

“ You could give me ?” Chef Vittoria slams the lid down on the pot.

“Disgraziato.” Her hands fly up into the air in my direction.

“I don’t need your followers. Not every chef is looking to make a fool of themselves online for likes.

I don’t cook for billions of people; I cook with love .

For art. This is my life. I’m not some kid looking to have fun on vacation.

You come into my kitchen and make a mockery of me? ”

Matty’s hands fall to his side.

My balls shoot so far up inside my body I might as well cease to exist.

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean—” I start.

“Delete that video,” Chef Vittoria says. “Leave my kitchen, per favore?”

I nod, grab Matty, and we exit quickly, me keeping my head down.

The last thing I hear is Bianca’s voice saying, “Sorry about that. He means well, but he’s a bit much sometimes—”

Chef Vittoria cuts her off and mutters something in Italian, and I yank Matty harder so that we can get away faster. I don’t want to hear any more.

So much for winning over Ricky’s family.

Lanterns drip from the ceiling of the main dining room overlooking the Tyrrhenian Sea.

Stone arches frame the room on nearly all sides, ivy lining the walls and ceiling, making it look like an undiscovered paradise embedded with magic.

One long wooden dining table sits in the center of the room, adorned with exquisite white china with delicate rose-gold trim, amber glass vases with pale pink flowers, and terracotta bowls of lemons and grapes.

Long glass bottles of bright yellow limoncello and carafes of burgundy-red wine are scattered throughout.

It smells of citrus and salt water and freshly cut grass, with a tang of blistered tomatoes and my flesh after Chef Vittoria charred me alive.

Matty and I are last to arrive because I had to lick my wounds in the bathroom and delete the footage. Matty asks how I’m doing, and between me seeing Bianca and getting eviscerated by a talented chef in front of her, my nerves are frazzled.

All sixteen people including Topher and Sienna are deep in conversation, and between the Lemons and the DeLucas, two loud-ass Italian families, the voices carry like sirens over the quiet night air.

Topher, at the head of the massive table next to Sienna, jumps to his feet and booms, “My boys! Now it’s a party!”