Kristan Higgins - The Next Best Thing

“What?”

“What? Well, Ethan’s my brother—in—law,” I whisper. “And just for the record—again—no one else knows that we’ve been…um…intimate. I’d like to keep it that way, okay?”

“Well, aside from him being Jimmy’s brother, why?” Parker says in a lower voice. “He’s a great dad, which I’m sure is number one on your list of priorities.”

I blink. “How did you know there was a list?”

“Please. Of course there’s a list. Probably a color—coded list.”

There is a list, of course, and yes, Strong Fatherhood Potential is indeed in the top three (in red, for nonnegotiable). I bite my lip. “Well, Ethan’s not, um…the right type.”

“Except in bed?” Parker suggests with an evil smile.

“Shh, Parker! Come on!” She chuckles, and I sigh. “He’s just not…well, first of all, I want a husband who’s not going to die anytime soon. And Ethan’s always jumping out of things and driving a motorcycle and stuff like that.”

“He wears a helmet,” Parker says.

“Not good enough.”

“So is immortality also on the list, then?” She raises a perfectly shaped eyebrow.

“Of course not. I’m not unrealistic. But yes, Low Risk for Early Death is on the list.” Number one in fact. Parker grins, and I continue. “The fact remains that Ethan, while a great guy, is just not for me, okay? And you know exactly what I’m talking about, because you’ve told me the same thing, even though you’d make a beautiful family and could have more little Nickys running around.”

Parker smiles. “Did you know he moved back to Mackerly?”

I pause. “Ethan?”

“Yes, dummy.”

“What do you mean?”

Parker takes another bite of cookie. “He took a job with International Food’s headquarters in Providence so he could be closer to Nick. Around all the time, not just on weekends.”

“Oh,” I say, mildly hurt that I don’t know this already. Right…he mentioned something Friday night about having something to tell me, but must’ve forgotten. “Wow. That’s big news.”

“Mmm. Anyway. He’ll be back permanently as of this weekend.”

“Well. That’s good.” I pause. “Good for Nicky, certainly.”

“Mommy! I ate blue frosting!” Speaking of Nick, the little guy charges out of the kitchen, the lower half of his face stained with blue from the hideous fondant Rose uses to frost her cakes (I’d only use butter cream, but Rose is the cake decorator at Bunny’s, no matter how superior my frosting might be).

“That’s great, buddy!” Parker says. “Give me a blue kiss, okay?” She leans over and puckers, and Nicky laughingly obeys.

“Want one, Aunt Wucy?” he asks. Though he’s lately mastered his L sound, he still calls me “Wucy,” which I find utterly irresistible.

“I sure do, honey,” I answer. He climbs onto my lap and obliges, and I breathe in his smell, salt and shampoo and sugar and hug him tight for second, relishing his perfect little form, before he wriggles down to play with his Matchbox cars.

“I gotta get going. Books to write.” She sighs dramatically.

Parker is the author of a successful children’s series—The Holy Rollers, child—angels who come down from heaven, don roller—skates and help mortal kids make good choices. Parker hates the Holy Rollers with a mighty passion and wrote the first one as a farce…stories so sticky—sweet that they made her teeth ache. However, her sarcasm was lost on an old Harvard chum who ran the children’s division of a huge publishing company, and The Holy Rollers are now published in fourteen languages.

“What’s this one about?” I ask, grinning.

She smiles. “ The Holy Rollers and the Big Mean Bully , in which the God Squad descends to beat the shit out of Jason, the seventh—grade thug who steals lunch money.”

“Beat the shit out of Jason!” Nicky echoes, zipping his car along the window.

“Oops. Don’t tell Daddy I said that, okay?” Parker asks her son, who agrees amiably.

“Want me to keep an eye out?” Parker asks, scooping up Nicky’s little cars into her buttery leather pocketbook.

“For what?” I ask.

“For your new husband?”

“Oh. Sure. I guess,” I say.

“Now there’s a can—do attitude!” she says with a wink, then takes my nephew by the hand and breezes out, her blond hair fluttering in the wind.

ETHAN WAS TWO YEARS BEHIND ME at Johnson & Wales. I didn’t know him until my junior year—while I’d grown up in Mackerly, the Mirabelli family had moved to town and opened Gianni’s my second year of college. They heralded from Federal Hill, the Italian section of Providence, and their restaurant was an instant success. I’d eaten there a time or two, but I hadn’t met any of the family until Ethan approached me one day as I was lounging on the grass at school, sketching out my final project for Advanced Cake Decorating.

“Aren’t you one of those bakery babes from Mackerly?” he asked. I grinned and affirmed that indeed I was.

“I’m Ethan Mirabelli,” he said. “My family owns Gianni’s. Do you know it?”

“I sure do,” I said. “Best food this side of Providence.” I shaded my eyes and took a better look at young Ethan Mirabelli. Fairly cute. Lively brown eyes, mischievous smile, the kind that curled up at the corners in a most adorable way. “Do you work there?”

“Not yet. My brother and dad are the chefs now, but maybe someday. What about you? Are you in the chef program, too?” he asked, sitting on the grass next to me.

“Pastry chef. I’m a sucker for dessert,” I answered.

“She loves sweet things,” Ethan murmured, lifting an eyebrow and giving me a sidelong glance. Flirt. I grinned again. “You’ll have to come in and try my mom’s tiramisu,” he said. “It’s the best in four states. Including New York.”

Ethan and I became instant pals. We hung out together, met for lunch a couple times a week, sat together on the old couches at the Cable Car theater and watched foreign movies, snickering inappropriately at the love scenes. “Sex in German,” Ethan murmured. “How awful.” The couple next to us glared, then muttered to each other—in German—sending us into gales of silent, wheezing laughter.

We didn’t date, but we were compadres. He was a sophomore, I was a senior, and we were at the age where that still sort of mattered…my almost twenty—two felt much older than his still nineteen. He couldn’t go out for a beer—not legally, anyway—and I was interviewing with hotels and restaurants while he was years away from graduation. And though he was pretty cute and very fun, it wasn’t, as we girls liked to say, that way . We never held hands or kissed or anything. We were just friends.

A few months after we met, Ethan and I shared the short ride home to Mackerly, and he brought me to Gianni’s.

“Hey, guys,” he called as we went into the kitchen.

“Hey, college boy, nice of you to drop by and visit the working class” came a voice, and Jimmy turned around, and that was that.

His eyes got me first…blue—green, ridiculously pretty. The rest of his face was awfully nice, too. Gorgeous cheekbones, generous lips, a little smile tugging at one corner. Time seemed to stop; I noticed everything…the golden hair on his muscular forearms, a healing burn on the inside of one wrist. The pulse in his neck, which was tan and smooth and seemed to urge me to bury my face there. Jimmy Mirabelli was tall and strong and smiling, and I didn’t realize I was staring at him—and he at me—until Ethan cleared his throat.

“This is my brother, Jimmy,” Ethan said. “Jim, this is Lucy Lang. Her family owns Bunny’s Bakery.”