“Looks like the cavalry is here,” Libby said.

Light glinted off the gold casing on the lipstick as she dragged the color across her lush, full lips, her mouth opened into a small O shape.

Lipstick was high up on his list of things he wished girls wouldn’t bother with—it got everywhere, and it tasted gross. But watching Libby apply it was the most erotic thing he’d seen in a long time. The way the color made her lips look full and moist caused all the blood in his body to rush south.

There is something seriously wrong with you. Lipsticks should not give you a hard-on.

Chapter Three

The following week Paul sat in his mother’s kitchen, bracing himself for their weekly “chat”—if you could call it that. Did guilt mongering count as conversation?

“You’re not getting any younger you know.”

“I’m twenty-seven,” Paul said, shaking his head. “You act like my whole life is over.”

“I already had your brother and you by twenty-seven. I was married five years.” His mother’s Italian accent had softened over the years, but it always came back full strength when she engaged guilt mode. “My parents brought us to Australia so we could make a better life.”

“And I’m disrespecting that because I’m not married and reproducing?” He leaned back in the rickety dining chair, wishing for the hundredth time that his mother would replace the yellow plastic set and bring her kitchen into the twenty-first century. She sat across from him, still wearing the floral apron from when she’d cooked lunch. “Des is only just getting married.”

“Your brother is responsible,” she said, reaching for the carafe of water between them and refilling their glasses. “I knew he would settle down, but he was concentrating on work. You…”

“What?”

“You have a new girl every week; it’s not right.” She shook her head, the reading glasses lodged in her curly, dark hair sliding precariously. “Don’t think I’m stupid, Paolo. I know. You can’t keep changing women like you change…shoes.”

Every Friday he had lunch with his mother before his long shift at First. And every Friday she grilled him about why he wasn’t in a relationship, why he mooched off his brother, why he wasn’t doing anything with himself.

Apparently that now also included criticizing his dating choices.

“Seriously?”

“You think life is all fun and games.”

For a moment she looked sad, the lines around her eyes deepening as she frowned. That look killed him every damn time. Guilt sliced through him, and he hated himself for not being what she wanted…not that he would ever let her know that. On the outside he looked as stubborn as ever, but her words tore at him. Shredding him up little by little.

This was a preview of things to come at Des’s wedding. Sadie. His cousin. His aunts. A reminder that he’d disappointed everyone by not being…someone else.

“She’s pregnant, you know,” his mother said, interrupting his thoughts.

“Gracie?”

“No.”

His heart stopped for a moment. “Who?”

“Sadie.” She sighed. “Zia Marcella rang today, Sadie is sixteen weeks pregnant.”

The air rushed out of his lungs as though someone had punched him in the stomach. The thought of seeing her at the wedding was bad enough, but knowing she was pregnant…

“I have to go.” He pushed up from his chair and grabbed his leather jacket from the coat stand.

“Paolo.” She stood, crossing her arms under her bosom. “I don’t say these things to upset you.”

He gritted his teeth, fighting the pounding in his head. He needed to sort out this problem soon. He was not going to face his ex and her smarmy husband alone while they basked in the glow of their perfect life.

The life he had wanted.

“I’m not upset, Ma.” He shrugged into his coat and swallowed against the lump in his chest. “I’ve got to get to work.”

“I want you to have a good life.” She looked up, her black-brown eyes shining.

“I’m perfectly happy with my life.”

At one point he was sure that was true, but now he constantly battled restlessness and dissatisfaction. Pride wouldn’t allow him to let anyone else see that, though, and he wore his reputation as armor. Better to be a womanizing playboy—as his mother had once called him—than to be a loser.

He had to come up with a solution to this wedding situation. No way was he going to be the Chapman failure again. He needed an idea, and quick.

“Is it so wrong that I want a few bambini in the house?”

He rolled his eyes and stepped backward. “No, there’s nothing wrong with that. But I won’t play happy families. You’ll have to wait until Gracie gets knocked up.”

“Don’t say knocked up.” She scowled.

“I gotta run.” He turned, shoving a hand into one pocket to fish around for his car keys.

“Wait!” She scurried back into the kitchen and returned with a cardboard tray filled with plastic containers and glass jars. “I made sauce and some sweets. Chocolate cannoli and kraffen.”

“The apricot ones?” His tastebuds were already cheering for the delicious doughnut-like pastries.

“Of course.” She sent him away with another guilt trip about settling down and finding a wife.

By the time he arrived at First the sun beat down in full force. His leather jacket felt like a straightjacket, stifling him, so he stripped it off and threw it onto the back seat. With a cardboard tray of food balanced in the crook of one arm, he stepped out into the sunshine and kicked the car door closed behind him.

“It’s already crazy in there.” A voice caught his attention as he walked toward First.

Noah leaned against the side of the restaurant, shielding his eyes with one arm. He looked as though he’d been put through the wringer.

“Busy?”

“Yep. Totally nuts.” Noah shook his head. “You’re going to be in for a treat tonight.”

Great. Fridays were crazy enough anyway with several of the office buildings in the block using First as their after-work watering hole. There were also a few clubs in the area, which meant they got a lot of younger customers having dinner and pre-drinks before a big night out. Fridays were rowdy, and normally he thrived on the hustle and bustle of a busy night’s trade, but today his energy was failing him.

Probably because his head was filled with a confusing mix of his pregnant ex and the redhead from last week.

“Excellent,” he said, not bothering to hide the sarcasm.

“Oh, more treats from Mama Chapman?” Noah peered into the box and fell into step beside Paul.

“Don’t even think about swiping any of this.”

The bottles and containers were labeled with sticky notes and his mother’s looping, barely legible cursive. Most of the bottles were labelled Des or Paul, but sure enough there was a bottle of pasta sauce and a container of pastries that had “Noah” written on it.

“Score!” Noah reached in and grabbed his items, halting Paul so suddenly that the tray wobbled precariously.

He was about to let out a string of expletives when his attention caught a colorful flash.

“Tiger!” he called out, shoving the tray into Noah’s hands.

Libby turned, shaking her head at him. “I told you not to call me that.”

She had a box in her hands, a folder sticking out the top. Her mass of copper hair was piled onto her head in a way that looked messy and yet totally perfect. A bright red dress skimmed the tops of her knees, swirling in the light breeze. Again she wore stupidly high heels that looked sexy as all hell.

“How’s the ankle?” He looked pointedly at her shoes.

Her lips melted into a sheepish smile. “I was housebound for a few days but there wasn’t any permanent damage…just a big dent in my pride.”

“And yet I see you haven’t learned anything about choosing appropriate footwear for walking down the street.” He wandered over to her and lifted the box from her hands. “Let me carry that for you.”