Page 69 of Meet Me on Mistletoe Lane

His freckles reminded me of a constellation, but I could never remember which one.

Cassiopeia?

Perseus?

Someone cleared their throat, and I instantly fell back on my heels.

“Nona sent me to make sure you didn’t get lost,” Bianca said from the kitchen doorway, arms crossed over her sun-yellow sweater. “Who are those for?” Her eyes flickered toward the flowers in Sam’s hand.

“Nona. Gram told me to give them to her.” He passed by me, but I took a minute to follow.

This is fine.

Everything is fine.

You can sit at a table with the best friend you almost kissed and across from the guy you should be kissing, surrounded by your entire extended family.

The grilling started the moment James spooned a single meatball out of the serving dish.

“Don’t you like meatballs?” Marco asked him.

“Of course.” He used a fork to cut it in half on his plate, steam pouring out. “I just didn’t want to take too much before everyone else.”

Nico snorted.

“We have another batch on the stove.” Marco took a spoon and dropped three more meatballs onto James’s plate. “Bon appétit.”

“This ricotta mixture is so fluffy,” Aunt Sofia said to no one.

“So, James.” Nico sat back in his chair and took a sip of Chianti. “Crunchy or creamy?”

James paused mid-bite. “Like, peanut butter?”

Nico nodded.

“Creamy, obviously.” James took a heaping bite of manicotti and groaned. “This is the best manicotti I’ve ever eaten, Mrs. Mancini.”

Mr. Bailey’s phone chimed, and when he took it out of his pocket to check it, Nona clicked her tongue and pointed her fork at him. “No phones at my table.”

He put up a hand in surrender and tucked it away.

Nona then turned her attention back to James. “The secret is in the pasta. You must roll out your own dough, and you need to undercook it.”

“France is known for their flour. Good for pastries,” Uncle Rick said from one end of the table. “Would love to get my hands on some.”

Nona muttered something under her breath in Italian, and though I couldn’t be positive, I was pretty sure she told my uncle he was blasphemous for saying such things.

“Bradley Cooper is French,” Bianca added.

“No, he’s not. He just speaks it.” Marco grabbed the big salad bowl and helped himself to some.

“I’ve had dreams where people speak French to me and I understand it,” Aunt Sofia said before taking a sip of her wine.

Oh Lord, here we go.

“Then you must know someone French, because you can only dream of faces you’ve seen,” Aunt Helen said to her.

Aunt Sofia frowned. “That’s not true.”