Page 72 of My Big Fat Shifter Wedding

I set my utensils down and took Olivia’s hand, bowing my head as Enzo began to rattle off in hushed Italian. I wasn’t offended or even uncomfortable by religious tradition, but I wondered what he was saying. I swore I caught some words like luna, mangiare, and famiglia, but that was about it. Certainly not enough to figure out if they were Catholic, Protestant, or even Jewish really. I’d ask Olivia on the drive home if we weren’t both completely exhausted.

“Amen,” Enzo said finally with the rest of us repeating after him.

“Amen.”

“Amen,” Rolando chimed in, sliding in through the doorway. “Finally, time to⁠—”

The doorbell rang again.

He stood very still for a moment, his face a blank mask as he breathed in and out before he addressed his parents. “Is there anyone you didn’t invite over this afternoon?”

“Oi now, we no invite anyone!” Mr. Rizoli objected. “Your mother made the mistake of spilling the beans to my sister, so the wolf was, as you say, let out of the bag.”

“I’m sorry, Olivia. I did not mean to. It was only that I was making the stuffing for the ravioli and I realized I was out of spinach since it bolted so early this year. I wanted to make everything perfecto for you and your fidanzato!”

Although I felt bad that the older woman was clearly quite guilty about the situation, I also couldn’t help but find her sincerity adorable.

“It’s okay, Mama. I know you didn’t mean to. You were excited. But we’re all here now, right? Everyone else can have their time in the dining room and this will be just us here.”

The doorbell chimed again.

“Don’t worry, I’ll get it,” Rolando said with a sigh. “Make sure you leave at least one roll and a couple of ravioli for me.”

With that, he left, and Olivia’s mother went from looking distraught to downright mischievous as she leaned toward me and whispered, “Eat as much as you want, I have a full second meal waiting in the fridge that only needs to be popped into the oven to finish.”

A woman after my own heart. Maybe this whole in-law thing wouldn’t be so bad. A little confusing and a whole lot overwhelming at first, sure, but so far I was happy with how things were turning out.

“Oh, Mama, I hope you haven’t been slaving at the oven all day!”

Mrs. Rizoli gave her daughter a look that told me this was a conversation they had often. “What is this slaving away you say? Cooking is my joy, and I will never turn down the chance to make special dishes. You know, there was once a time when you barely could reach my apron strings but you always insisted on being in here with me! My piccolo chef, so adorabile!” Her dark eyes switched to me. “I have pictures, do you want to see?”

“Do I ever!”

She jumped up to her feet, impressively spry for a woman who’d had seven kids and was nearly as old as my mother—which I couldn’t quite believe, but Olivia wouldn’t lie to me—but her husband grabbed her hand.

“Maybe after the meal, amore? You have worked so hard to make this delicious food and it deserves to be eaten hot, si?”

She rolled her eyes and blushed in a good-natured way and sat right back down. “You are right, mi cucciolo. I got ahead of myself.”

“It’s all right. I too miss our mini-chef.” He sent a playfully pointed gaze over at Olivia, and I really felt like I had been transported to a nineties sitcom.

And it was pretty fucking great.

While Olivia was very purposefully ignoring all of that, I sat back and enjoyed the ambiance as the patriarch served first his wife, then Olivia, then me, before finally himself. I was used to getting less on my plate than I actually wanted, but I had to ask Enzo to give me a little less. It looked like Olivia’s impressive ability to put food away also ran in the family.

“Thank you for this amazing food,” I said once my plate was placed in front of me. There was a roasted squash and greens dish that I didn’t recognize, the aforementioned ravioli, fresh dinner rolls, a stewed pepper dish, fresh caprese salad, and another sauteed green dish I was told was called cicoria ripassata.

It was quite an amazing spread for a casual meal. Judging by the fact that Mrs. Rizoli also had the time to cook a whole other meal that was in the fridge, and another one for the bevy of her clan that was in the dining room, Thanksgiving had to be incredible in their household.

Did Italians celebrate Thanksgiving? Why did I feel like that question might be too stupid to ask out loud?

I added that to the list of things to ask Olivia in the car.

“Mmmm!” I declared after the first bite. “I ha⁠—”

“Dov’è l’essere umano?”

The loud, shrill voice startled me, and a second later, a tiny slip of a person trundled into the kitchen with a walker.