Seduced by Stratton (The English Brothers Book 4) (17 page)

“Mr. English, we have your roses all ready to—”

“Thank you, but . . . what are those?”

“Oh. Calla lilies. Deep purple. Sometimes called black. Sometimes called wine.”

Stratton stepped across the quaint shop to have a better look at them. “Do they mean anything?”

“Why, yes,” said the clerk, patting her gray, coiled hair and blushing. “They symbolize ‘magnificent beauty.’”

“How many do you have?”

“Oh. Well, these, plus there are some in the back refriger—”

“I’ll take all of them.”

“All?”

“Every single one.”

“Mr. English, if my math is right, that’s almost five dozen.”

“Fine. I’ll give you the address where they should be delivered.”

He’d texted Barrett quickly for Emily and Valeria’s address, then gave it to the clerk, with very specific instructions about the message to be delivered with the flowers. He was so preoccupied, he almost forgotten to take the roses he’d originally ordered. Sitting on his lap, they looked commonplace to him now. Ordinary.

Kate droned on in his ear: “. . . flowers, chocolates, dancing . . . beautiful dinners at places where no one can get a reservation. You’re Stratton English. The city is at your feet. The world. Work it, cuz!”

Flowers, chocolates, dinners. He pursed his lips and furrowed his brow, thinking of the sixty dark purple blooms en route to Valeria’s apartment today. Something about them was such a better fit for Val. All of Kate’s suggestions sounded . . . phony.

“I don’t know, Kate. Val’s not conventional, she’s—”

“A
woman
. Trust me, Stratton. I’m your cousin, and I love your quirks, but you have to play this straight and traditional. You’re wearing the suit? And the tie we chose?”

“Yeah, but I feel a little over-dressed for a Saturday afternoon. Last time I went to her studio, I was just wearing jeans and—”

“Stratton! You have to trust me. A man on a romantic mission does not wear beat-up jeans and a T-shirt, okay?”

“Okay,” he said, telling himself he’d never had very good luck with women, and this time he was listening to an expert. “Thanks for everything, Kate.”

“Go get her, tiger.”

He shook his head, pressing “End,” and put the phone back in his pocket.

Stratton looked out the window as the cabbie entered Valeria’s neighborhood. It was Saturday afternoon, and even with a light snow falling, the sidewalks were bustling. Older ladies clustered together in front of an old Catholic church. Four young men suddenly burst into laughter as they ducked into a coffee shop. A man and woman pushing a stroller bearing a tightly bundled infant stopped to look at a menu in front of a festive, red, white, and green restaurant on a corner. He hadn’t noticed before, but the Italian Market was a robust community teeming with life, with normal people carrying on normal lives.

He realized, suddenly and with a bit of shame, that he knew very little about Val’s family. Yes, he knew she had several sisters, and one of them had children, but otherwise he didn’t know if she was close to her parents, if she’d had a happy childhood, how she ended up doing Ph.D. work at UPenn. There was so much to learn about her, and Stratton felt frustrated, suddenly, that he didn’t have the answers. He wanted to know everything—absolutely every little thing there was to know—about Valeria Campanile.

“Eight bucks,” said the cabbie, stopping in front of
Danse Allégre
.

Stratton noticed two full rows of cupcakes in the bakery window and couldn’t help grinning as he handed the driver a twenty, telling him to keep the change. Holding onto the fragrant bouquet of roses, he opened the downstairs door and took the stairs two at a time. Though he’d waited almost three weeks to see her again, now he felt like he couldn’t possibly wait another second.

Which is why his heart thudded to the floor like it was tied to a brick when he peeked inside the studio window. Val was nowhere to be seen. An older lady was leading the three o’clock class.

His shoulders slumped as he found Mr. and Mrs. Conway on the dance floor, and the flowers that he was holding up slowly fell to his side.

“Those for Val?” asked a familiar voice from behind him.

He turned to see Danny Morello leaning against the newel post, arms crossed over his chest.

Stratton took a deep breath. “Yes. Is she here?”

“Huh,” scoffed Danny. “Like I’d tell you if she was. Prettiest girl I ever seen in my whole life, and you walked away. For all that you look smart, you’re a moron.”

Stratton clenched his jaw and stared at Danny with hard eyes. “I don’t think it’s any of your business.”

“Yeah, well, it kinda is. See, I’m dating her sister now. And she’s dating my cousin. So, you can see how—”

“It’s none of your business at all.”

“We’re practically family,” said Danny, uncrossing his arms to crack his knuckles. “And Joey’s good for Val. She was sad about you. Now she’s happy. Why don’t you leave her alone, breakfast tea?”

Stratton gestured to the studio with his chin, ignoring Danny’s mocking nickname. “Is that her Zia Angelina?”

“Might be,” said Danny.

“Fine. I’ll wait and talk to her. Maybe she’ll know where Val is.”

“She’s at a Flyers game,” he blurted out. “
With Joey
.”

“Flyers? Ice hockey?”

Somehow Stratton couldn’t imagine Valeria at an ice hockey game. At the movies? At the ballet? At a lecture? Sure. At a professional sports game? He just couldn’t see it.

“My cousin’s got season tickets,” Danny bragged. “To the ’Sixers too.”

Stratton nodded, feeling increasingly terse, and seriously considering the repercussions of punching Danny Morello in the nose.

He hated the thought of Val anywhere without him. He hated the thought doubly when it meant she was with Joey Conchetta. And he sort of hated that she was at an ice hockey game, because if professional sports were important to her, it was something they definitely didn’t have in common. Stratton couldn’t think of anything he’d rather do less than watch a bunch of men fight over a small ball or small puck on a rink or a court.

The studio door opened, and the older folks started filing out, recognizing Stratton almost immediately.

“Look, Gladys! It’s your boyfriend, back to trip the light fantastic!” said one older lady.

“Hold onto your wife, Chet,” teased one of the men.

“Where have you been, young man?” demanded Mrs. Conway, reaching up to pat Stratton’s cheek with a smooth palm. “I’m sure Val’s been missing her handsome beau!”

Stratton leaned down to kiss her cheek, and all of the other ladies tittered their approval.

“Her beau?”

Stratton looked up at the older lady in the doorway. Even with her gray hair and subtle wrinkles, she was stunning. And there was no mistaking she was related to Valeria. Gladys Conway released his cheek, sighing audibly before following her husband and the other dancers down the stairs.

“Mrs. Campanile?” he asked.

Realization dawned quickly on the woman’s face. “Mr. English?”

“Yes.”

Her smile was just as wide and lovely as Val’s. “I owe you so much thanks. Come in. What can I do for you?”

Stratton couldn’t resist casting a quick smirk over his shoulder at Danny as he followed Val’s aunt into the studio.

Once the door closed behind him, he said, “I’m looking for Val.”

“I see,” said Angelina, sitting down in a folding chair and gesturing for Stratton to join her. “I’m close to my niece, you know. She’s very special. In fact, I think she’s exceptional.”

“I agree,” said Stratton.

“She’s got a big heart and even bigger dreams. What’s more, she’s worked to make them come true since she was a little girl. Against the odds. My brother and his wife? They’re good people, but they don’t get Val.”

“You do,” said Stratton, because he could see it.

“She’s a lot like me, in some ways. I had a chance once. At something bigger, something better, something . . . different.” She sighed and a fleeting smile faded as she looked back up at Stratton. “It was an audition with the American Ballet Theater in New York City. But I got cold feet at the last minute. Decided that working in my parent’s dance studio was good enough.”

“Was it?”

“No,” she said softly, shaking her head.

“I’ve made a terrible mistake,” he said in a rush. “I need to fix it.”

Angelina offered him a wistful smile. “Fair warning . . . it might be too late.”

“I’ll do anything,” he said softly, holding her eyes.

“Anything?” she asked. “Because I think it would take a grand gesture at this point. Something risky and romantic. Are you up for that?”

Risky and romantic. Neither was his strong suit. But this was for Val.

His heart sped up, but he nodded. “Anything.”

She seemed to consider this for a moment before standing and folding the chairs on the perimeter of the room. Stratton placed the roses on the floor and jumped to help her.

“You know what the Campanile family does every Saturday night?”

“No, ma’am.”

“We have a family meal at the restaurant Val’s father owns. Campanile’s Cucina. In the basement there’s a long table. It’s one of a kind, built into the space by craftsmen my brother hired from Tuscany. You’ll never get it out of there—he had it custom-made. It’s long enough to fit fifty people: my brother, his wife, his five daughters, their significant others, me and my husband, our four kids, their significant others, our other brother, his new wife, his two children from his first marriage, his two little ones from this one, and all the grandchildren. With extra space, just in case relatives visit or friends are invited. We have dinner together at that table every Saturday evening.”

“I had no idea.”

She slapped a chair shut and looked at him frankly. “Unless she’s bleeding from her eyes, Valeria will be there tonight at six o’clock.”

Stratton straightened his glasses and cleared his throat. Was her aunt actually suggesting that he crash her family’s weekly dinner? And then what? Risky and romantic, so . . .

Declare his feelings?

Beg for her to reconsider him in her life?

Ask her out on their first date?

Before he could get through the door he’d probably be thrown out on his ass by the Morello-Conchetta cousins, who would surely be in attendance. Anyone who knew how badly he’d blundered his chance with her three weeks ago would probably like a piece of him too. It was a suicide mission. Epic insanity.

Zia
Angelina cleared her throat meaningfully, and Stratton looked at her in the dim light of the empty studio as he placed the last chair on the rack.

“Mr. English . . . Stratton. I had one chance. One audition. I got cold feet. I decided what I had was good enough.” She narrowed her eyes. “I live with regret. I don’t want my niece to live with regrets. I don’t want
you
to live with regret. Don’t settle for ‘good enough’ when you both want something exceptional.”

Then she patted his shoulder, crossed the studio floor gracefully, and flicked off the lights, leaving Stratton alone in dark, uneasy silence.

***

“You up for the ’Sixers next weekend, honey?”

Valeria looked over at Joe, who was driving them to her family’s weekly supper, and gave him a weak smile. What in the world was she doing with him? She had no problem with other people liking professional sporting events—she respected the fact that different people had different likes and interests—but the more time she spent with Joe, the more she realized their crossover was minimal.

Yes, he was handsome. Yes, he made a good living, and he claimed to admire her studies, and he was—for all intents and purposes—a nice guy. But when it really came down to it, he was no better match for her than his cousin, Danny. They didn’t have much in common. He didn’t excite her. Her feelings for him weren’t growing, they were fading, and the way he constantly finished her sentences—inaccurately—was really starting to annoy her.

“I don’t know, Joe. I have a lot of studying to do. And I don’t want to let my aunt down. You know she had to teach my class today so we could—”

“Val, can’t you see? Your aunt, your mother, my aunts, my mother . . . they’re all thrilled you and I are dating. Your aunt doesn’t mind covering a class if you’re with me.”

She rolled her eyes to look out the window. Joe Conchetta didn’t know her aunt well enough to speak for her, but this illustrated a pattern. More and more, Joe was taking liberties like this one: subtly telling her about a plan for her life that everyone seemed to want, except for her.

“Um, no offense, Joe, but unless you chatted with her, there’s no way you could know that. She may have had things to—”

“Honey,” he glanced over at her from the driver’s seat. “You’re kidding, right?”

“No, I’m not,” she said, crossing her legs away from him.

“Okay.” Joe huffed lightly beside her. “Can I ask you a question?”