When we first started scouring my closet earlier for appropriate “Meet the Family” wear, Daisy had pulled them all from my closet in a huff. She thought they should be tossed since they screamed Boston Avery.

Though Marcello did like the pearls.

With some heels.

And nothing else . . .

Regardless, the cardis and the pearls wouldn’t be coming with me to Pienza—I wanted to dress to impress. Please like me clothing to help me prove that I was head over heels for their son, brother, nephew, whatever.

“You’re crazy. This is a man who looks at you and makes you melt.” She stood to rummage through my closet. “Not to mention that whenever you look at him, he beams. I’ve known him a long time, and he doesn’t light up like that for anyone.”

He did get that hazy, glossed-over look in his eyes whenever he stared at me. Which was often. And when he did, I got the full-blown belly flutters. Those feelings were what I needed to focus on for this event. Not the nerves.

“It’s normal to be nervous about meeting the family, Avery,” Daisy consoled, pulling out a few more pieces from my closet. “Besides, he’s nervous, too—don’t let that suave Roman thing he’s got going fool you. Just remember: he’s bringing you there. That means something.”

Daniel’s family had been wary of me from the get-go. I couldn’t have been a more perfect match for their son, yet Bitsy was always standoffish. I was never able to win her over.

“I can see in your face that you’re freaking out again,” she said, pulling me up from my bed and setting her hands on my shoulders. “Snap out of it.”

“I know, I know,” I said, hugging her. “I need something else to focus on, or it’s going to drive me insane.”

“Let’s take a quick shopping trip before we get Fiona from the airport,” Daisy suggested, eyeing the white sundress again.

“What?”

“I’m thinking if we get you more of these,” she said, touching the delicate lace of the bodice, “Mamma, Papa, and Marcello will all be declaring their love for you next weekend.”

* * *

“HOW THE HELL HAS IT been so long since we’ve all been together?” I asked, looking across the table and seeing Daisy and Fiona.

“Because you’ve had a stick in your ass and never wanted to leave Boston?” Fiona chirped, stealing a glance at Daisy, who nodded her head vigorously.

“Oh. Right,” I said, sipping my Campari and soda. “That.”

“And the fact that we’re never in the same place at the same time,” Daisy added, waving the waiter over and ordering another round of drinks.

“There’s also that,” Fiona agreed, leaning across the table toward me, resting her chin in her hands. “I was kidding about the stick in your ass. Mostly.”

“Your Botox looks really good, I can barely notice it.” I smiled prettily at her as she cracked up.

“Good goddamn have I missed you, Bardot!” She pointed at Daisy. “Not this one, though, this one I see too often.”

“You see me maybe three times a year,” Daisy replied, shaking her head.

“That’s too often,” Fiona said, as Daisy mouthed it. The three of us had pledged the same sorority freshman year at Boston College, and became instantly joined at the hip. Fiona was a different sort of gal, and without being a legacy in the sorority (two older sisters, her mother, and her grandmother, not to mention her cousin, who was president when we were rushing), she likely would have become just a face in the crowd. Independent, free spirited, extremely political, she was brash and loud and we loved it.

There was something about the three of us that clicked, and we’d remained fast friends throughout the years. Though I was in more regular contact with Daisy, Fiona was one of those friends you didn’t have to talk to very often, didn’t need to check in with more than a few times a year . . . but you knew she’d drop everything and be there the second you needed anything.

“Speaking of three times a year, I heard Daniel’s putting it to his secretary instead of you; what the hell is up with that?”

“Dear God,” I moaned, apologizing to the people at the nearby table who’d suddenly become way more interested in our conversation than their own. “Also, Daisy? I could kill you.”

“What, you think I wouldn’t find out on my own? My mother told me all about it; you’re the talk of the needlepoint circuit, kiddo,” Fiona responded, crunching a breadstick between her teeth. “And for the record, I’m glad you dumped his sorry ass. Daniel was too pretty. You just know that guy wasn’t ever going to be up for some serious fucking.”

“Dear. God,” I said again, this time a bit more quietly. I reached for my glass. An afternoon with Fiona was like a crash course in all things obvious. She called it like she saw it, never held anything back, and at times offered information that no one had even asked for. “For the record, he was up for some serious fucking. I saw him doing it, just not to me.”

“Just be glad you’re getting out while you’ve still got all those great sex years ahead,” she said, nodding wisely. “You should never waste good sex years with a weenie. And no offense, but Daniel is a weenie.”

“Agreed, now can we change the subject?” I begged. “Where are you off to now?”

Lately everyone I knew was coming back from or running off to a grand adventure, and Fiona was no exception. She actually got paid to go on grand adventures. A field producer for the Travel Channel, she literally went around the world and back to seek out and uncover the most interesting places in the world . . . and then make her television audience want to book a trip immediately. She spent more than nine months on the road each year, was rarely home, and gladly suffered an extreme case of wanderlust.