Love Arranged (Lakefront Billionaires, #3)

by Lauren Asher

“I’m still angry with you, but I’m less so now.” “What changed?” “I went to go visit your father at the cemetery.” You will not cry, I chant repeatedly, but my eyes won’t cooperate. “Spending time with him always calms me down.” I sniffle. My mom might be anxious, but at least she’s brave enough to stop by his grave, unlike me, who hasn’t since his wake. She continues, “If he were still here, he’d tell me to give Lorenzo a chance. He’d say that your happiness is more important than my anxiety about you dating someone like him.”

“I want you to be happy, and if Lorenzo is the man who makes you feel that way, then it’s my job as your mother to support you.” “But—” She pats my face. “No buts.” You’re going to hell, my guilty conscience speaks out. At least Lorenzo will keep you company.

I don’t even like picking berries, but Lorenzo was the one who suggested the activity. He thought it would buy him some points with my mom since she planned on coming out here anyway after she volunteered to make strawberry-flavored agua fresca for next week’s Strawberry Festival. A lot of people are at the farm today, picking berries for their own festival dishes and desserts, so we’ll be seen by plenty of possible voters over the next couple of hours. Lorenzo is already parked when we arrive, so he walks over and opens my mom’s door first before helping me out of the car. He pulls me into a short but intimate hug, and I’m hit with the scent of his cologne. It isn’t overpowering but rather nearly undetectable unless I press my nose right up to his skin.

I should’ve known he was up to something when he accidently tipped my basket over, but I didn’t expect him to smack my ass as soon as I bend down. But that isn’t nearly as bad as me liking it. My lower half pulses when his palm connects with my ass, and if it weren’t for the group of women standing a few rows away, I’d press my legs together to ease the ache that comes out of nowhere. Don’t you dare embarrass yourself like that.

“Sorry. I couldn’t resist,” Lorenzo says loudly, making them giggle. I stand up and turn so our chests are touching. “No need to apologize, baby.” My voice has a huskiness to it that I don’t recognize. Based on the way his nostrils flare, Lorenzo either loves or hates the sexy rasp as much as his nickname. I brush my hand down his chest. “But next time don’t hold back. I promise I can take it.” And that right there is how I helped Lorenzo secure the Smut Club readers’ vote.

the point of inviting him back to our house to make some agua fresca once she is too hot to continue. Her invitation was not part of the plan, and I’m instantly anxious at the prospect of Lorenzo hanging out in our home. It has nothing to do with the house itself but rather how I feel having him in my space. Going out on dates with Lorenzo is one thing, but having him in my chaotic little sanctuary feels like a step too far.

He’s patient, polite, and intent on helping my mom with whatever she needs in the kitchen. My mom gives him a few tasks, including washing the buckets’ worth of strawberries, and Lorenzo does it without a single complaint, following every request with a “Sì, signora” that makes me giggle. “Your dad used to say that too.” I gape. Lorenzo blinks. “You knew Lorenzo’s dad?” I ask my mom because Lorenzo looks incapable of speaking. My mom looks cautious all of a sudden. “I didn’t know him too well, but I never forgot his flower order.” I can’t resist asking, “What was it?” “Whatever’s in season⁠—” “So long as it’s pink,”

My mom laughs. “How’d you know?” Because I’ve heard that phrase before, back when Lorenzo first started ordering bouquets from Rose & Thorn. Lorenzo reaches inside his pocket and leans against the counter, looking unbothered if it weren’t for the small twitch in his jaw.

His parents might not be here anymore, but he finds the smallest ways to acknowledge them, unlike me, who can’t visit my father’s garden without crying. My mom’s eyes crinkle at the corners. “Your father never missed a single Friday.” Lorenzo dips his head in silent acknowledgment, and I’m overwhelmed by the urge to pull him into a hug, although I hesitate after everything he has done and said to me. Comforting someone else comes naturally to me, but comforting him…it feels like an instinct I hate to ignore.

I bump him with my shoulder. “Who knew you could be such a gentleman?” “I know it must come as quite a shock given our past, but I do have manners.” “Yet I haven’t experienced them firsthand.” He tucks his hand underneath my chin and lifts it. “Don’t tell me you’re jealous.” “Imagine if you heard me telling another man yes, sir over and over again?” My face flushes at the wide smile on his face. “In this particular scenario, is this man old enough to be a grandparent?” “No!” I pull away with a laugh, and Lorenzo’s hold on my chin slips. He stares at his hand, which is still hanging in the air, as if he too was wondering how it ended up anywhere near my face. I shouldn’t miss him touching me. Shouldn’t so much as think twice about why he even bothered to do so since we don’t have an audience present. And I most definitely should not, under absolutely any circumstance, think about when he will do it again.

LORENZO

Phase One of Operation Fake Fiancée, a subtle title Willow came up with, is officially a go. I still haven’t pushed Lily on the subject of why she dislikes the Ludlows enough to help me win the election, but I plan on figuring it out tonight during our first official date. Since I was too busy working with one of my clients—a man who needs an investor for his water-containment system that helps farmers save water—to plan a date tonight, Willow took it upon herself to fit Lily and me into a fully-booked cooking class in town. It’s the perfect kind of setting for a date. A staged dinner would’ve been too awkward, so a cooking class gives us something to do while remaining in the public eye.

“I love what you’ve done with the place,” Lily says while looking at me out of the corner of her eye. “Thank you! Lorenzo helped us with the rebranding project.” She beams. “Without him, it wouldn’t have been possible to turn the restaurant into a cooking school.” Maria’s husband, who looks extremely uncomfortable at the reminder of my help, is proof why. Most people, especially men, hate asking for money, so I’m typically brought on as a silent investor when people are out of options and need capital.

“Who else have you helped in town?” Lily whispers to me while Maria hands out plastic aprons to the group. I press my mouth against her ear. “Wouldn’t be much of a secret if I told you, would it?” She is a little slow when pulling away. “I’m surprised you’re not flaunting it for everyone to see.” “Unlike the Lopez cousins, some of us don’t need to have a street or soccer field dedicated in our honor.” She sticks out her tongue as Maria stops by our station to hand us our aprons. “For my favorite student.” Lily grabs both. “Better not let your other ones hear that.” “They’ll understand once they see this man cook.”

“Sounds like I’m in the presence of a professional.” “Hardly.” I’d rather downplay my skills than be praised for them. “How’d you get into cooking?” She speaks low so no one hears us. “My parents.” Hopefully my short answer wards her away from asking more questions about it. Cooking is more about control than enjoying the art. My first and last therapist told me as much, along with how control was one of the reasons I most likely developed OCD. Sometimes when a child is ripped away from their life like I had been, they feel the need to establish control over every aspect of their environment. Which is why tonight is that much more difficult for me. In my own kitchen, I know exactly where and when the food was bought. I can double- and triple-check expiration dates without anyone noticing the compulsion, and I’m able to wash my fruits and veggies until it feels just right without anyone judging me.

Lily slips her plastic apron over her head, making her dark hair stand up in all different directions. Before I think twice about it, I reach behind her head and fix her hair so it’s no longer catching on the plastic. She blinks up at me, her eyes slightly wider than before. “What?” I ask. She rips her gaze away. “Nothing.” We both know she’s lying, but I don’t push, instead holding out the permanent marker so she can write my name across the front of the apron. When it’s my turn to do the same, I’m questioning if I can make it through the four letters of her name without making a fool of myself. In the middle of writing the letter y, her body goes rigid. I look around for what threatened her happiness and easily locate the source. Cazzo. Richard, Trevor Ludlow’s younger, less charismatic brother, walks into the room with a blonde woman on his arm.

“How often do you make fresh pasta?” she asks as I crack an egg over my well of flour. “Never.” She lets out a fake gasp of outrage. “I thought you were Italian.” I grab a pinch of flour and flick it at her face. With a giggle, she wipes her flour-speckled cheek. She ends up missing a spot, so I brush it away. A camera flash startles us both, and we look over to see Maria winking. She checks the photo before scurrying away with a promise to send me a copy.

“Did your parents teach you?” she asks, her gentle voice soothing the scratchiness in my throat at the mention of them. I look at my ball of dough. “Yes, and once I learned, I helped them make pasta every Friday afterward.” She gives my bicep a squeeze, leaving a dusty handprint on my skin. “Sounds like a tradition I can get behind.” “Don’t get me started on traditions,” I tease, surprised by my own lightheartedness. Usually I avoid talking about my parents, but with Lily, I don’t even notice, most likely because the typical heaviness I feel whenever I think about them is dormant.

“Do you have their recipe somewhere? I’d love to try it,” she asks. No, because my uncle donated or discarded most of my father’s possessions—another unforgivable act to add to his never-ending list. “Before…you know…my parents had this recipe book.” I have no idea why I am sharing so much about myself, but I can’t seem to stop myself as I continue. “They’d always try new ones, and if they liked it enough, they’d write it down.”