The Serenghettis had been a colorful lot so far. She took a deep breath and followed Cole as he made his way toward a lithe and attractive woman who obviously possessed the Serenghetti genes.
“Mia, this is Marisa Danieli.”
Cole’s sister was beautiful. Her hair was longer than Marisa’s, and wavy, not curly. Her almond-shaped eyes tilted slightly upward at the corners, hinting at Slavic or Germanic ancestors—not an uncommon story for those with roots in Italy’s north.
“I remember you,” Mia said, stepping away from the serving table next to her.
Yikes. In her case and Cole’s, recollections of the past couldn’t be a good thing. Still, Marisa couldn’t fault Mia if the other woman wanted to size up Cole’s newest girlfriend and be protective of her brother. Mia hadn’t yet reached high school when she and Cole had been seniors, so Marisa placed her at close to Serafina’s age.
Mia tilted her head. “You were the smart girl who brought down the high-and-mighty hockey team captain. Come to finish him off?”
Marisa felt heat flood her cheeks. Still, Mia’s tone was surprisingly neutral, joking even. Cole’s sister had faulted her brother for his arrogance in high school and called Marisa smart.
“Mia—”
Before Cole could say more, Marisa found her voice. “No, I need him too much to polish him off. He’s the headliner for the Pershing fund-raiser.” She cast a quick glance at Cole. “Besides, he’s shaped up to be a decent guy.”
Mia’s shoulders relaxed a little. “That’s what I think.” She smiled. “And you’re not his typical fashion-model type.”
“Thanks for the endorsement, sis,” Cole said drily.
“You could be a model yourself, Mia,” Marisa interjected, knowing it wasn’t just flattery to get into Mia’s good graces, it also happened to be true—Cole’s sister was a knockout.
“I was a leg model for a while,” Cole’s sister admitted, her tone rueful as she pushed one of her chestnut locks over her shoulder. “I didn’t like it, but I thought that if I wanted to be a designer, it would help to know the fashion industry from the leg up, if you know what I mean. I did a lot of hosiery ads.”
“Yeah,” Cole cracked, “I tried to get her to insure her legs.”
His tone was jesting but there was also an element of brotherly pride. And Marisa felt a sudden pang at Cole’s easy bond with his siblings. She had her cousin Serafina, but they’d always lived in different homes, though sleepovers had made up for some of that distance.
“Hmm,” Mia said, considering. “Well, don’t count me out on the insurance. I may need to continue to model my own clothes, and from the leg up if it comes to it. Designers starting out have to make do with what they have.”
“I’ve got some helpful advice for you,” Cole teased. “Put Jordan in drag. If he’s a hit with underwear, he’ll rock a strapless dress.”
While Marisa smiled at the image, Mia laughed. “Jordan is going to throttle you for suggesting it.”
“Don’t worry, you’ve got plenty to hold over him. He’ll come cheap.”
Marisa warmed to Cole’s sister, who obviously had a self-deprecating charm. She could also identify with a woman who was trying to get a career off the ground and running.
Cole looked down at her. “Can I get you a drink?”
“Yes, please,” she said, realizing a glass would be a good prop to help disguise her nervousness. “A diet soda would be great.”
“I think you need something stronger,” Cole teased. “You still haven’t met all the Serenghettis.”
“I’m going to check in with Mom in the kitchen,” Mia announced, stepping back. “Knowing her, she’s in a frenzy of activity.”
When Cole and Mia had moved off, Marisa found herself alone and looked around. The crowd had thinned—some people heading indoors—and she spotted Serg Serenghetti sitting in a chair near the outdoor kitchen. The family resemblance was unmistakable—she’d have recognized him even if she hadn’t seen pictures in the local paper from time to time over the years.
He beckoned to her, and she had no choice but to walk toward him.
Serg’s hair was steel-gray mixed with white at the sideburns, and he shared some of his eldest son’s features—not to mention Cole’s imposing presence, even though he was seated.
When she’d neared, Serg waved a hand to indicate their surroundings. “You’re a teacher, Marisa. Based right here in beautiful Welsdale, my wife says. Not like those model types...”
How much had Serg been told about her? “Yes, I’ve been teaching at the Pershing School since I received my teaching degree. Cole has been generous enough to help with our fund-raiser.”
“Pstcha,” Serg retorted. “It’s not generosity. Cole wants you to keep seeing him.”