A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

19. Nate

19

NATE

Despite what I’ve seen over the last weeks here, the Morelli family does in fact take breaks, usually in the form of a family gathering. This morning started with an “easy” training (easy being three miles on the treadmill and a full body lifting workout) and then we all dispersed to get ready for the first pool party of the year. It’s tradition, a whole event celebrating their crystalline pool with bright blue tiles being warm, clean, treated sufficiently, and ready to jump into.

I am on the invite list, I think by merit of my being in the right place at the right time—namely a protected prisoner in their home.

Willa, Sean, and the twins show up for the fun along with a man I’ve never seen before who doesn’t spare a glance in my direction, much less introduce himself. I slather sunscreen on myself while everyone greets one another.

“This is Cillian,” Willa says to me. “My brother-in-law.”

She pats said brother-in-law on his shoulder, and Cillian doesn’t force a smile, he only looks me over like I’d been below his notice and he is now forcing himself to pretend he cares for propriety’s sake. I’m not a short man, but I am still a few inches below his sight line.

I would hold out my hand for him to shake, but it’s still greasy from the sunscreen, so I offer my fist instead. Like in another life we might be two bros playing basketball at the rec center.

“Nate. Nice to meet you.”

He looks at my fist and commits the cardinal sin of leaving me hanging until I drop my arm back to my side. Monster .

“The teacher,” he says with a generous amount of derision.

I know with a bone-deep certainty that Cillian is not fun at parties, not the guy you ask to help you move, not the person you want as your neighbor if you need a package brought in. He looks more ready for a yacht club than a backyard pool party. My swim trunks are almost a decade old, probably purchased at the same time I got my slides that squeak against the cement. Cillian wears a cream, silken button-up, unbuttoned enough to show the top of his tattooed chest and neck, and shorts that look nicer than my best slacks.

Just how can he make me feel woefully underdressed for a pool party? I didn’t think you could mess that up, the only dress requirement is a swimming suit.

Basically, I hate him.

Artie, at least, is casual, though maybe I shouldn’t take comfort in matching with a 12-year-old.

“Yep, I am a math teacher,” I say, rubbing more sunscreen on my face. “Though you’ll have to forgive me, your reputation doesn’t precede you.”

“Uncle Cillian, are you going to swim?” Angel yells while Artie uses all his lung capacity to blow up a floatie.

“No, Angel. Maybe next time,” he says. I’m not convinced.

Cillian squints at me before shaking his head and walking away, not another word wasted on the likes of me.

Seriously, who needs a gold watch at a pool party?

Vanessa and Mary come outside then, Vanessa in a tight little wrap dress, Mary wearing all black, as is her way. Both have sunglasses perched on their noses and Vanessa pushes hers onto her forehead to give her niece and nephew kisses on their cheeks.

Cillian, I notice, offers his own cheek for her to kiss which she does without fare. Seeing them next to each other, Cillian looking down a great many inches to her perfect face, it dawns on me that he is the kind of man Vanessa is looking for. Huge forearms, tattoos swirling over his limbs and up onto his neck, a strong alpha male type. And if he’s part of the family, he’s already got the criminal thing going for him.

He is the kind of man that ends up with Vanessa Morelli, the kind who can protect and defend her, or at least fight alongside her.

He has the look.

But if he’s so perfect, why isn’t he on the list?

Next to me, Artie throws the mostly inflated floatie into the pool and dips his toe in the water, using my forearm for support. He hoots.

“Mr. G., it’s so warm. ANGEL! Come feel the water!”

His little sister deposits her sketchpad and pencil bag and scurries over to do the same, using my other arm to steady herself while she splashes her foot in the pool. After being deemed sufficiently warm enough, she and her brother squeal. Being with his family, away from the assessing eyes of other 12-year-olds, has made Artie seem younger. It’s heartwarming, I don’t usually get to see students in their natural habitat with the people they like the most.

“Can we get in, Grandma?” Artie asks. Claire is already laid out on a chair, basking in the late morning sun.

“Yes, babies,” she calls. Artie plunges into the pool without a second thought, soaking me and his sister immediately, to her delight. She’s a little more timid, but I give her a thumbs up and she pencil dives in after him.

“Mr. G., Mr. G., you have to get in!’’ Artie hollers and who am I to deny this?

I toss the bottle of sunscreen onto my towel and jump in after them. I have been practicing my cannonball for many years, so the kids are amazed by the splash and their joy is more important than the milk-curdling glare Cillian sends my way for getting a teaspoon of pool water on him.

God forbid any water gets on his chino shorts.

Leo follows suit, then Sean, and eventually Willa, Vanessa, and Mary wade in, opting to chat in the shallow end of the pool. Cillian finds a chair and talks with Claire, never joining the fun, even when Claire leaves him to paddle some laps back and forth.

My arms are still completely wrecked from the week of grueling training with the Masochistic Morellis, but I launch Angel as many times as she asks and let Artie ride on my shoulders for a game he made up called Viking. I’m the horse; we charge his dad and Leo with pool noodles until they pretend to die, throwing themselves backward into the water and inevitably splashing their mother and aunts in the process.

It’s the most fun I’ve had since getting here, and after a couple of hours, everyone is starving and sun kissed, despite Willa’s liberal sunscreen application with her spray bottle on the whole family.

“Come eat!” Willa calls to her kids, who float on their backs, arms spread, eyes closed.

“Five more minutes,” their dad says, and Willa allows it. And because she’s nicer than either of her sisters, she chats with me while we make our plates.

“I think you’re already getting stronger,” she says. “You look strong.”

I can’t say that I look any different after four days of them kicking my ass, but I thank her anyway and take a seat next to her under the patio.

“You’re good with kids. Is that why you’re a teacher?” she asks.

“I like kids,” I agree. “I wanted to get a PhD and teach college accounting, but I did a student teaching internship in my undergrad and loved it. Middle schoolers are hilarious and much smarter than I thought.”

“They are funny,” she agrees. We both look out at her twins, their ankles hooked together while they float on the surface of the water.

“Yours are sweet with each other,” I say. Willa beams and absentmindedly puts a hand on her stomach.

“They are.”

She calls to Sean to get the kids out of the pool for lunch, five minutes up, and they make their burgers with puddles of water pooling beneath their feet.

Vanessa hasn’t put the wrap back on, instead sporting just her green bikini, and the sight of her skin is making my brain short-circuit.

I recognize that she is no longer a romantic possibility and will live a long life with a loving criminal, but she’s still the hottest woman I think I have ever seen, in real life or on TV.

“You’re staring,” Mary says, plopping into the seat next to mine.

I clear my throat and take another bite of burger, but my eyes flick back to Vanessa, who now looks at me curiously. I nod in her direction, the first acknowledgment I’ve given her in hours, and she does the same before continuing her conversation with her mother.

Somewhere after my thirtieth (a frugal estimate) piece of watermelon, the kids have dried off and changed, now asleep with messy damp hair on the couch as a Godzilla movie plays on the TV. I stand in the kitchen snacking on the fruit, everyone spread out either inside or out as the party winds down. It’s strange to see them all not worrying about work, just a Saturday with nothing to do other than talk and swim and eat and relax. It’s so very summer, and I find myself wanting to take a nap on the couch as well.

Jenna sent a bunch of photos of her travels thus far, many of which with the random strangers that she’s made into friends on her way. I reply to each of them with more questions than I know she’ll answer and ask her to please, pretty please, FaceTime me the next time she has a decent Wi-Fi connection. She says she will, but only if I promise to give her a virtual tour of the mansion and let her talk to Mary who she thinks sounds fun.

Not the word I would use.

“What is it you have on her?” A voice startles me from my texting. Cillian.

“Who?”

“Ness,” he says, and I can’t help but think the use of the nickname is calculated. A subtle brag. Very I-have-an-intimacy-with-her-that-you-do-not .

“It might be easier if I did have something on her.” I snap the lid onto the fruit bowl and slip past him to put it in the fridge. “Just the wrong place, wrong time. One ill-advised date that ended in a shooting. I’m sure you get it.”

“What I don’t get is why she has a soft spot for you. Maybe it’s her maternal instinct urging her to take care of something helpless and pathetic.” Cillian doesn’t pretend to say this flippantly, he is all eye contact and broad shoulders pulled back into perfect posture.

What the hell is this guy’s deal?

“Are you this charming with everyone, or just with me?” I ask, but he ignores the question and leans closer to me.

“I don’t trust you.”

“Hm,” I agree. “And just what do you think I can accomplish? As you pointed out earlier, I’m only a math teacher.”

“A math teacher interviewing mobsters.” He laughs. “Rich that anyone would believe you’re a consigliere .”

I grab a cup and pour some of the orange mango juice from the counter while I try to come up with a response to the bullshit this dude is going on about. I’ve never been one for macho posturing, but I’m starting to think I should practice comebacks for moments like this one.

Cillian puts a punishing hand on my shoulder. There must be a pressure point directly beneath his thumb because my shoulder involuntarily drops in response.

“Don’t search too hard,” Cillian says, and offers the most disgustingly handsome smile I’ve ever seen. His row of bottom teeth are perfect, and commercial-white. What a dick. “She’ll come to her senses soon.”

Speaking of the she-devil, Vanessa walks in through the back door, her sandals slapping against the tile floor.

Cillian takes the glass of juice from my hand and brings it to Vanessa.

“Thanks,” she says, and takes a long sip. “Just what I wanted.”

Cillian smiles and winks at me over her head.

I hate that fucking guy.