Five hours later, I’m in hell.

“The lasagna is overcooked.”

My mother pushes her plate away like she’s worried something might launch out of the meat sauce and smack her in the face.

Fun fact, the lasagna is not overcooked. No one else at the table has said so. Not Manuel. Not Carli, my mother’s chef who was wrangled into this dinner by, you guessed it, my mother herself. And not even Steven, my mom’s new boyfriend.

Yeah, boyfriend.

The divorce hasn’t even gone through yet and she’s already making up for lost time.

Fortunately for the rest of us, he’s not a complete jerk like her string of exes.

With a slight grimace, Steven downs half his gin and tonic. “Addie, the lasagna is fine.” He looks to me with a reassuring nod. “I’m a bit of a lasagna connoisseur—if this bad boy had a problem, I’d mention it.”

I’m not sure he would but I appreciate the sentiment. “Thanks, Steven.”

Seeking out my glass of wine, I tip it back and wonder why the hell I thought this would be a great idea.

When will I get it through my head that Adaline will always find something wrong with what I do?

As much as the weight of defeat settles on my shoulders, I refuse to give into it. At the end of the day, I paid for this meal, I spent hours pulling it all together, from the flower bouquet on the table to the California red that everyone—aside from Steven—is drinking like there’s no tomorrow.

I smile like I’m on the red carpet, wide and fake and showing off so many teeth Crest just might hire me for a new toothpaste commercial. “How was everyone’s day? Manny?” Manuel’s eyes go wide after being called on and he flashes me a thumbs-up. When it comes to my mother, Manuel O’Carlo turns as timid as a rabbit. I get it—not only does she cut his paycheck, but she has the opportunity to make his life hell. Right. Grabbing the wine bottle off the table, I offer it to Carli. “More wine?”

“Fill the bitch up. I need it, bad.”

The words are low and throaty and clearly meant only for me, but Adaline’s voice rings out like a shotgun. “What did you say, Carli?”

“I said, umm . . .” Brown panicked eyes flick from me to my mother and back again.

“Dessert!” If possible, my smile grows wider. And more fake. “She wants dessert. Which I have. The dessert, I mean. Plenty of dessert.” Oh God, I need to shut up. “Blueberry pie, anyone?”

Manny hangs his head, and I’m surprised he doesn’t bury his face in his palms and laugh out loud. His shoulders shake with mirth, and it’s enough movement, thanks to his elbows on the table, to send his wine glass teetering over.

Onto my mother’s pristine white tablecloth.

And all over her pale, yellow dress.

Oh . . . shit.

“Manuel.”

His name seeps out from my mother in a hiss that would rival Angelina Jolie as Maleficent. It’s not pretty, trust me, and it sure isn’t sweet. For his part, my mother’s butler cringes and leaps up from the table, muttering something about grabbing towels.

He makes his escape in seconds, leaving the rest of us behind to deal with my mother’s impending outrage. When he catches my eye and winks just before he exits the room, I don’t know whether to applaud his outlandish maneuver or throw the damn wine bottle at the back of his head.

The timid mouse just earned his claws.

Stephen swipes at his longish brown hair. “Babe, you’re fine. It’s just a little wine.”

Nope, wrong words. Totally wrong words.

My mother’s chin jerks back. “Just a little wine? This dress is Burberry.”

Stephen’s dark eyes swing in my direction, wide and confused. “Did she mean blueberry?”

“Burberry.” Adaline snaps a white hand napkin off the table and dabs at the skirt of her dress. “I said Burberry.”

“Right.” Stephen pauses, and for the length of time it takes him to exhale, I swear that my heart stops beating. Then, “Gwen, would you be a doll and cut me some of that blueberry pie?”

Do you remember those cartoons where the steam billows out from their ears? Just before shit goes down and everyone takes cover from an out-of-nowhere explosion? That’s how I feel when my mother drops her palms to the table and rises to her feet.

“This dinner is over.” She points an accusing finger at me. “Fire Manuel.”

What? My stomach twists with instant guilt. This is all my fault. All of it. If I hadn’t thought this stupid dinner was a good idea . . . if I hadn’t thought for one single second that my mother needed me, that I could make her feel better . . . Nausea throws my belly into tipsy-topsy central, and the lasagna threatens to pull a Second Coming.

Deep breath. Inhale.

“Mom, it was an accident. Everyone has them. You, me, everyone.”

Her shoulders draw up indignantly. “Fire him. I’ll have him replaced tomorrow.”

How in the world did one dinner go so wrong? I look down at the wine bottle gripped to my chest, and then meet Carli’s gaze. She twists her chin away, cutting eye contact, leaving me to deal with all of this alone.

Like always.

Bitterness rises to the forefront, and my fingers tighten on the glass bottle. “Manuel has been with us since I was a kid. You can’t—”

Adaline’s mouth firms. “I can and I will. Everyone is replaceable, Gwen. We’ve discussed this. Your employees, your men, your friends. Everyone.”

Including me? I almost voice the words that have lingered in my head for longer than I’d like to admit.

Stephen beats me to it.

“Um, hey there? Babe?” He holds up a finger, twirling it in a yoo-hoo motion. “Not replaceable over here.”

My mother stares at him. “I met you yesterday.”

He shifts uncomfortably in his seat. “Yeah, well, it was quite the meeting, if you know what I mean.” When he winks again, the urge to vomit returns tenfold.

Beside me, Carli makes a gagging sound and then steals the wine from my grasp. She doesn’t bother with a glass this time. Pushing away from the table, she salutes me, tells my mother good night, and then promptly strolls from the room—all the while bringing the wine bottle to her mouth and tossing back the dry red.

My mother is not amused. Blue eyes flashing with barely concealed fury, she grinds out, “You don’t know Burberry,” as though the biggest deal breaker of the night is the fact that her date is ignorant to the world of British fashion designers.

Apparently, even my mother has limits when it comes to what she’ll put up with.

Stephen drags his tongue across his bottom lip. “Nah, I don’t. You got me there.” He turns to me. “But I would love a slice of that blueberry pie. Whaddaya say, Gwen? Get an old man a slice?”

I’d like to pretend that I had the foresight to see my mother reaching for her plate of “overcooked” lasagna. But I don’t—Adaline might be dramatic, but I never once thought she was certifiably insane.

Not until the plate goes flying and the lasagna collides with a nasty splat! against Stephen’s shirt. Red sauce splatters everywhere. It coats the white tablecloth like oozing blood. It sails through the air, sharing its meat love with the area rug, the original hardwood floors, the pale green walls.

If classical music were playing—and the lasagna had made its last descent in slow motion—the whole scene would be like something out of a movie.

But if this was a movie, Stephen would stand up like a normal human being, call my mother a crazy bitch, and storm the hell out of here.

Nope, I have the oh-so-lovely good fortune of watching my mother and Stephen glance at each other through all of the mayhem and fall in love like some sort of screwed-up Lady-and-the-Tramp replay over a shared plate of pasta.

“Fuck me,” Stephen mutters, “but you are so damn hot when you get all angry like that, Addie.”

My mother doesn’t even spare me a glance as she saunters around the head of the table, hips swaying with pure exaggeration. “I want to lick that sauce right off you.”

His arms go wide. “I’m all yours, babe.”

“You definitely are.” She hooks one finger into the collar of his shirt, and he goes without prompting, trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

“Leave me the Burberry pie, Gwen!” is the only good-night I receive as they disappear around the corner.

There’s no way I’m leaving the Burberry pie or blueberry pie or any pie after that showdown. I collapse into my seat and stare at what remains of the dinner I hoped would bring my mom and I closer.

Simply put, it looks like a murder scene.

And if we’re being all metaphorical here, that’s exactly how my relationship with my mom feels right now.

Without giving myself the chance to second-guess everything, I reach into my cardigan pocket for my phone. There’s a missed text from Charlie asking how the dinner went, and I send her a quick message promising to offer a recap tomorrow—with wine.

I try to ignore the way my heart rate picks up speed as I thumb down to Marshall’s contact and hit CALL. My butt scoots a little farther down in the chair as I listen to the ringtone and play with my discarded dinner napkin.

Maybe he’s not around?

He could be at practice. Maybe he’s in transit from Toronto?

I’m so lost in my thoughts that the sound of his smooth voice over the phone sends a jolt through me.

“Hey, you.”

Okay, maybe it’s just me, but I’ve watched enough TV to know that those two little words said by a sexy guy are kryptonite to a female’s piece of mind. Beneath the table, I kick off my stilettos and fold my feet under me on the seat.

“Hey.” I eye the dining table. “I have a random question for you.”

“Shoot.”

I love how straightforward he is. I take a deep breath. “Have you ever wondered what it’s like to swim in lasagna?”

Marshall doesn’t even miss a beat. “It’s been awhile since I left my lasagna-swimming days behind. But they were strong, once upon a time.”

I nod, even though he can’t see me, and try to ignore the warmth spreading through my veins. His good humor is contagious, and I know it was the right move to call him. Why haven’t I done this before? Knotting the napkin into a ball, I say, “I’m swimming in it right now.”

Through the receiver, I hear masculine voices in the background. I wonder if they’re still at the airport, in transit back from Toronto. There’s the sound of a door clicking shut and then all that remains is the sound of his voice—which is heavy with mischief. “Tell me you at least drenched yourself in Parmesan cheese.”

And just like that, I grin. I can’t even help it. Tipping my head back against the chair, I allow myself to imagine Marshall here with me, and that vision is . . . well, to be honest, it’s lovely. “And ricotta,” I say, trying to hold back a laugh, “it wouldn’t be lasagna without ricotta too.”

“Damn, aren’t you my kind of woman?”

Yes, I want to tell him, yes I am. The admission tangles on my tongue but all that slips out into existence is a very quiet, “I want to be.”

There’s a small pause. It’s long enough to throw my heart rate into triple-time and set off a stampede of what were you thinking?! thoughts. I know that he claimed to want my heart, but maybe he feels differently now that I’m actively opening up to him? Maybe he’s spent the last six years putting me on this pedestal of his own making . . . only to realize now that I’m not all he thought I was.

I laugh awkwardly, a choked sound that sounds miserable even to my own ears.

There’s nothing quite like a bout of self-examination while you wait for your crush to speak to make you feel on top of the world—not.

I wonder how much worse it would get if I asked Marshall to never let me go, Rose-Jack style.

So bad.

“Gwen.”

I swallow. “Yes?”

“What’s the likelihood of you climbing out of your lasagna pool and meeting me tonight?”

The daughter part of me—the one so desperate for a slice of affection from my mother—is determined to stay here and clean this place right up. Make her realize that although she’ll never, ever, put me first, I do my best to make her a priority.

Before tonight, I would have turned down Marshall’s proposal and made the magic happen.

Tonight, after watching Adaline send away both her butler and chef while keeping her new boy toy close, I think it’s time to put me first. For once.

Eyeing the sauce-painted walls, I toss the napkin on the table and stand. “I have Burberry pie.”

“What?”

Oops. “I mean, blueberry pie. I have blueberry pie.”

“I’m not a man who turns down pie,” he tells me, voice low, “and I’m not the type of guy who reneges on a promise. I owe you a kiss, Gwen, and I hope you’re ready to collect.”

Oh. Oh.

I don’t have the chance to formulate a witty rejoinder.

His laugh is husky, sexy, and it’s all too easy to picture him thumbing the belt loop of his jeans just before he strips off his shirt to show me the goods. “I’ll text you directions to my house, in case you don’t remember where I’m at.” He pauses. “Don’t forget the pie, honey. I’m feeling hungry in more ways than one.”