Two days later, Skylar and I walk into some deli to meet Chelsea for lunch. She stands when she sees us, frantically raising her hand like we’d miss her in the small downtown lunch spot.

“Hey.” Skylar frees herself from her jacket and sits down at the table.

“I didn’t know you were bringing him.” She looks me up and down, unimpressed.

“Him? Do you have amnesia? You know my name.” I don’t bother taking off my jacket because it’s more trouble than it’s worth and I’m not planning on staying long.

“We were coming from a doctor’s appointment,” Skylar says, hanging her jacket off the back of the chair.

“I’ll gladly leave,” I comment, and Chelsea shoots me a look that says yes please.

She glances over my shoulder for a second and then her narrowed eyes widen, a smile overtaking her entire face. “No, it’s okay. Stay.”

“Stay?” I ask.

Skylar’s busy looking around the place and then she suddenly grabs my arm, her fingers digging into my flesh even over my jacket.

“Whoa, let’s keep this my good arm.” I slide it out from under her.

She doesn’t glance over at me, instead she slides closer, her voice low. “It’s Layla Andrews,” she whisper shouts.

The name sounds familiar, but I can’t place it. Please tell me this isn’t another fucking friend that’s going to put her back in her feeling bad about herself depression.

“Hello, that’s why I summoned you here.” Chelsea glances over, and waves.

“You know her? Is that the manny guy?” Skylar who obviously hasn’t let her US Weekly subscription wane sounds like she’s about to scream and attack the poor woman with two kids hanging off her.

“Yes and YES!” Chelsea leans back. “The magazines did not do him justice. Wait until you see his ass.”

The woman—Layla—waves back and they make their way over.

“Well, I have nothing better to do all day.” Skylar leans back, her legs kicked out in front of her with her ankles crossed.

I glance over to get another look at the guy. I don’t know what Sky’s going on about. He looks average to me.

“Who are they?” I ask, mindlessly picking up the plastic triangle thing in the middle of the table with the specials and an advertisement for Tavern Meats on it.

“Put the Powder magazine down once in awhile, Beckett. It’s Layla Andrews and her boyfriend.” Chelsea says this like I’m an idiot for not knowing it already.

“I thought you said he was the manny?”

“Jeez Beckett, come back down to Earth.”

I stand, figuring while I’m here I might as well get a sandwich. Just as I move, Skylar grabs my wrist, stopping me.

“Why are they here?” she whispers.

Chelsea leans over the table. “My new boss is funding his script and Layla is the star. They have a meeting with her and wanted lunch. She already had something on her calendar for lunch and we’ve yet to hire her an assistant, so guess who she asked?” She’s beaming.

“Oprah?” I guess.

Chelsea rolls her eyes.

“I’m so jelly you have connections like this. Who is this woman you’re working for?”

“I’m getting a sandwich.” I glance down to my wrist that still has Skylar’s hand around it.

“Sorry. Yeah, I was stopping you from leaving.”

“I wish I could, but you’re my driver. Want anything?”

Skylar looks over her shoulder to the chalkboard behind the case full of artery clogging meats.

“I’ll be there in a minute.”

The case is filled with sandwich meats that I’ve never even seen before and from the names of them, I’m assuming they’re Italian. As I wait in the line, I investigate why a place with a Chicago flag painted on one wall and pictures galore is named simply The Sandwich Place.

The line moves quickly and most of the patrons are dressed in suits or dresses. Women in heels with fashion computer bags hung from their arms with phones pressed to their ears.

A woman about my age is at the register. A soft smile plays on her lips when I step forward, a pad of paper in her hand. “What can I get you?”

I check the chalkboard to see what number I want from the thirty different sandwiches they offer. “I’ll have the thirteen.”

She jots it down. “Chips, drink, cannoli?”

“Drink, no chips and maybe I’ll be back for cannoli.”

She places the pad down, ringing me up, her pleasant smile turning coy. “I can’t promise they’ll be any left. They’re our specialty.”

Normally, I’d lean over the counter, give her some lame line asking if she’s on the menu. She’d giggle, I’d say how I just got back from the Classics and casually throw in how I claimed silver. Hell, I might even exaggerate, okay lie, about my injured arm. But what happened a few nights ago with Skylar is still fresh in my mind. Something has shifted. The fact that I keep my good hand in my pocket when we’re near says how uncomfortable things have become between us. The last two mornings, she’s showered and dressed before coming downstairs.

When we arrived home from the club that night I grabbed her mom’s first aid kid from the laundry room, bandaged her up, and watched her go to bed. It was all I could do not to follow.

That’s when that damn light bulb in my head not only lit up, it shined like a fucking spotlight. Our relationship, er, friendship was on the cusp of collapse and I needed to do something to keep that from happening.

“What did you get?” Skylar peeks her head over my shoulder.

“The Italian one.” I point up to the board.

She laughs and pats my stomach from behind. “You do realize that sooner or later you’ll have to watch your diet.”

“You know I commit to a full year of eating whatever I want.”

Not really, because I wouldn’t grab any air to do my tricks if I had a gut the size of most middle-aged husbands, but it’s only been a few weeks. Skylar should be living it up, too.

“Splurge,” I say, and her arm doesn’t leave my stomach.

The cashier is eyeing the closeness between us.

“Okay.” Skylar rushes over to stand in front of the cashier before a line forms again.

I let a relieved breath go now that her hand isn’t on my body any longer.

A minute later, she’s got her number and is standing next to me again.

“You’re not going to ask for an autograph?” I eye the celebrity couple and their kids clearing off their table. The boy’s pretending he’s flying an airplane from his coloring page, weaving up and down the rows of tables.

The little girl pulls down her mom’s blouse, exposing part of her bra. The man, rushing over, murmurs something to the woman. She laughs and he buttons up her blouse, snatching the baby from her arms. I watch for no reason other than fascination because the guy looks like he’s having the time of his life. She rises up on her toes, placing one hand on his cheek and bringing her lips to his other cheek. He circles his hand around her waist, pulling her as close as he can and the two sneak in an inappropriate kiss, although my stalker self might be the only one who saw it.

A hand waves in front of my face. “I think maybe you’re the one who wants the autograph.” Skylar giggles and I snap back to attention.

Two days ago, that scene wouldn’t have warmed my insides. I need to get the hell out of Chicago.

A cold rush of winter air ignites goose bumps along my neck and Skylar and I both turn our heads, but it’s not the celebrity couple that catches our eye as they leave.

“Holy...” Skylar’s voice breaks, but her gaze doesn’t shift.

A man walks in, and yeah, I’ll reluctantly admit that he might be what some girls would call hot. He rounds the case of meat and heads to the back of the shop, the scent of cologne drowning my nostrils in his wake.

“Obviously knows the owners,” I mumble, sparing a glance at Skylar, who practically has drool running down her chin.

“Whoa,” she says, looking more star struck than she did a bit ago when she saw the actual fucking movie star and then heads back to the table.

I chuckle the emptiest laugh I’ve ever had, trying to play it off.

“Mama!” The man’s voice booms out from the back and through the entire place.

“Mauro.” A woman’s voice follows, sweet and endearing and rolling the r in his name.

A twinge of jealousy stabs my insides. It’s funny how you can tell so much by the way someone says a person’s name. There’s no denying she loves her son.

The two start talking in a language I don’t understand. Italian is my best guess.

“Number forty-three,” the man—Mauro I guess—says, and places my sandwich on the counter in a black basket with wax paper made to look like a newspaper.

Skylar’s next to Chelsea when I reach the table. She’s obviously decided to wait for her number to be called here instead of by the counter, which relieves me since I try to avoid being alone with Chelsea as much as possible.

“Oh, it looks awesome.” Skylar stares at my sandwich much the same way she did the guy who came in moments ago.

“Yeah, Chelsea had a good pick for once.” I push my straw through the lid on my cup.

She shoots me an annoyed look that distorts her face unattractively. “As I was saying,” Chelsea pauses for dramatic flare. “He’s one of their sons. There’s three of them, and hand to God, each one is just as hot.”

“And you haven’t snagged one of them up?” Skylar asks, twirling her number in her hand.

Chelsea waves her hand and I look back over my shoulder to see the guy approaching our table.

“They’re Italian, Sky. Old school possessive mama. Too much drama for me.” She rises from her chair and is enveloped in the guy’s arms.

“Chels, how’d I miss you when I walked in?” His blue eyes spark when they land on Skylar.

I thought Italians all had brown eyes?

The douchebag needs to keep it moving. Maybe go visit his mama again.

“You tell me,” Chelsea responds in a flirty voice.

The two of them laugh and suddenly my sandwich nauseates me.

“This is my cousin, Skylar Walsh, she just got back from the Classics.”

His eyes widen.

Yeah, yeah, yeah, we know, it’s amazing, you’re impressed, whatever.

He holds his hand out to her.

“Mauro Bianco,” he says, and the last name triggers my memory of the car accident. It can’t be a coincidence.

“Nice to meet you.” Skylar’s voice is low and sultry as her body falls to the back of the chair like saying hello took all of her energy.

I’d like to smack the smile off Mauro’s face because it’s not a ‘nice to meet you smile,’ it’s a ‘can I dip my hands down your pants and feel how wet I made you’ smile.

“Hey,” he shifts his attention to me and nods.

“Beckett.”

“This is Skylar’s friend,” Chelsea adds.

He scrutinizes me, his brows furrowing. “You look so familiar.”

“Do you happen to be related to a cop and a paramedic?” I ask.

Skylar glances over at me, shocked. Oh, that’s right, she was consumed with her conversation with Officer Mount Me during the entire exchange after the accident.

Mauro snaps his fingers and points to me, recognition lighting his face.

“Duh,” Chelsea says and points to the painted wall, split into three parts. One has the Chicago Police Department symbol with the chequered pattern on top and bottom in the middle. The firefighter symbol with flames on its left and the paramedic symbol on it’s right, equally loved with a painted ambulance.

Mauro laughs. “What can I say, my parents are proud.” He shrugs, but the smile adorning his face says he’s happy about that. “You’re a snowboarder, right?”

I nod.

“My brother Luca showed his picture with you to the entire bar. You may be responsible for some little Bianco’s in about nine months.”

I laugh.

“Number forty-eight,” the young girl behind the counter calls out.

Skylar moves to stand, but Mauro presses his hand on her shoulder. “I got it.”

She falls back down into the chair, clutching her chest and heaving for a breath. Okay, maybe I’m exaggerating slightly, but she definitely likes him.

A minute later, Skylar’s sandwich is placed in front of her. “Good choice on the cannoli. Homemade.” He winks and for fuck’s sake if she was an ice cream cone she’d be a puddle on the floor because she practically melts back into her seat.

“Is it your day off?” Chelsea asks.

“I’m on in a few hours.”

“I’m guessing you’re the firefighter?” I ask, biting my sandwich.

“What a brainiac you are,” Chelsea says, sparing me a glance.

Mauro looks down at her, probably wondering why she’s so snarky to me, especially since I’ve tapered down my own reaction toward her. We’re in public after all.

“Yeah. I’m the oldest so I think they followed in my footsteps, each thinking they could outdo me. Hello, I run into burning buildings.” You can tell he’s joking, that he’s really not full of himself and if it wasn’t for the way his gaze keeps shifting back toward Skylar, I’d probably like the guy, but not when he likes her.

Mauro sits down at our table and I internally groan. “So, Skylar, my brother told me you went out with his partner?”

Skylar sips her drink, her sandwich still untouched. “Yeah.” Her eyes flicker to me. “A few nights ago.”

“How’d that go?” He leans back in his chair, his muscular arms crossing over his chest.

“He was nice.” She shrugs and shifts in her seat.

“Nice?” He raises his eyebrows. “That’s not the usual adjective someone would use to describe Michaels.”

She giggles, her fingers knotting in her lap in front of her. “Well, I was trying to be polite.”

Mauro sits up straighter, links his hands on top of the table, leaning over like Chelsea and I aren’t here. “No need. The guy is a tool.”

She laughs some more and my insides churn watching this scene play out.

“You know what?” Chelsea stands. “This sounds impromptu, but why don’t Beckett and I give you two some space.”

Skylar doesn’t refuse and either does Mauro, their eyes still fixated on each other.

Fucking Chelsea.

But what am I supposed to do? I stand, collect my sandwich and drink, and I’m not even sitting at the other table before Mauro slides over into my seat beside Skylar.

From three tables over, I watch the woman I’m just figuring out I love more than a friend, twist her hair and laugh at another man’s jokes. As usual in my life, I’ve been set aside.