Clamping a hand over her chest, my sister practically swoons, head tilted and all.
“Oh my gosh, Fabian,” she says. “That’s the sweetest thing anyone’s ever said to me.”
“Really?” I chuckle. “That’s the sweetest thing?”
“I’m exaggerating, but you know what I mean,” she snaps.
“Anyway, consider yourself lucky,” he tells her.
“I feel like I should pay you for that advice,” she says. “That was gold. Here. This one’s on the house.”
Carina mixes Fabian his own poor man’s appletini and slides it to the end of the counter.
“You don’t have to drink that,” I tease.
“Just for that, you get one too.” Carina fixes me the same sickly, yellow-green cocktail, placing it in my hands. And for the next two hours, we ensure my sister doesn’t have to drink alone.
Prancing off to relieve my bladder, I return to the living room only to find Carina passed out cold in one of my chairs.
“When did this happen?” I motion toward my snoring kid sister.
“About thirty seconds ago,” Fabian says. “Kind of disappointed. She’s pretty entertaining.”
“That’s Carina-light,” I say. “Just wait until you meet full sugar Carina.”
Grabbing a throw blanket from a nearby basket, I attempt to fix her neck so it isn’t craned in an unnatural position, and then I cover her up.
“Think she’ll be fine sleeping like that?” he asks.
“Where else is she going to sleep? I mean, we can move her to the couch?”
“Put her in my bed. I’ll take the couch.”
I snort. “Okay, if you hated the mattress I had in there before, you’re going to hate the couch even more.”
“I insist,” he says. “She’s your sister and this is your house. Come on. I’ll help you move her.”
He folds the blanket, places it on the back of the chair, and scoops my sister into his arms. At five foot nine, she’s not exactly elfin. But he makes it look like he’s carrying a feather. I follow them back to the guest room and help her get situated on top of Fabian’s brand new fancy mattress, between his thousand thread count sheets and his expensive pillows.
Sighing, she rolls to her side and cups a hand beneath her cheek like a princess.
She’s a pain in my side, but I love her.
“You’re a good sister,” he says as we turn out the lights and shut the door. “I hope she knows she’s lucky to have you.”
“What’s your sister’s name?” I ask as we return to the living room, which now feels a little emptier without Carina’s loud presence.
“Francesca,” he says.
“That’s beautiful.”
“But everyone called her Frankie.”
“And you two are no longer in touch?” I ask.
He shakes his head. “Unfortunately, no.”
“She hasn’t tried to reach out to you … with you being famous and all?”
“Never. And I used to wish she would. Couldn’t even get a hold of her last year when my parents passed. Don’t know if she’s even aware. She sort of … wrote us off, I guess. Addiction will do that to a person.”
He takes one side of the sofa, and I take the other, curling my legs up and getting comfortable—settling in for what I hope will be another getting-to-know-you session. If someone told me last week that I’d be sitting here, curled up on the couch with Fabian Catalano shooting the breeze, I’d have never believed them.
My sister may be a little extra sometimes, but thank goodness for that.
She’s the one who talked me into this.
“I meant what I said about helping you find your sister,” I say. “And it doesn’t take as long as you’d think. Usually when I start a project, I have my clients submit a DNA sample, and I mail it off to this service. Takes about 4-6 weeks to process, but once I get results, I can start putting together a family tree, reach out to distant relatives, that sort of thing.”
“If she wrote us off, I doubt she kept in touch with any fourth cousins or second uncles twice removed.”
“You’d be surprised. Sometimes people know things …” I shrink my shoulders and tilt my head. “But I won’t pressure you. If you ever change your mind, let me know.”
“Appreciate it.” Rising, he grabs a water from the fridge—and one for me.
“You didn’t have to do that.”
“I’ve lived with you less than two days and already all I’ve seen is how much you take care of everyone else,” he says, taking a seat again. “But I’m curious … who takes care of you?”
“No one needs to take care of me,” I say with a buzzed scoff. “I’m completely self-sufficient.”
“Yes, I know you run your own business and you pay your own bills and you’re doing it all and then some,” he says, “but what about your other needs? The ones you can’t fulfill?”
“If I can’t fulfill it myself, I don’t need it.”
“Ah, so that’s how you justify it.”