Much like Jill.
He wouldn’t admit it to her when her mood was fluttering on the edge of cranky, but she might be onto something with the two of them being too much alike.
Almost as though their matching, ready smiles would cancel each other out.
“Does he play polo?” Vin asked. “He totally looks like the type of dude that would play polo.”
She gave him a look. “Stop. Just because he doesn’t wear a leather jacket doesn’t mean he’s preppy.”
“How much white does he have in his closet? Tell me honestly,” Vin said, glancing down at her.
She started to giggle, then slapped a hand over her mouth, as though catching herself. “Stop. Come on. I’ll introduce you.”
Please don’t.
But of course, he followed her. It had to happen sometime. Might as well get it over with.
And as it turned out, Tom had all sorts of pretty manners to go with the pretty face.
Vincent hated him. Mainly because there was nothing to hate.
“It’s nice to finally meet you,” Tom said sincerely, reaching out to shake Vincent’s hand.
Ignoring the hand was tempting—very—but even he had his limits of rudeness, and endured a firm handshake.
“Jill’s said plenty about you,” Tom said, taking a drink of the flowery cocktail and not wincing in the least.
“Nothing good,” Jill chimed in cheerfully.
“I knew within minutes of talking to Jill about her job that you were her other half,” Tom said.
Vincent glanced at Jill then, curious how she would respond to that assessment, and found her watching him.
She looked away the second their eyes met, something fleeting and unidentifiable flashing across her face.
Vincent was saved from having to rummage up some requisite response when Elena appeared.
“You’re late.” She shoved a glass of something sugary and pink into his hand as she lifted to her toes and kissed his cheek.
Elena was dressed to kill as always in a form-fitting gray dress and high heels that, despite being light gray suede, were inexplicably clean.
The dirt was probably scared of her.
He glanced at his beverage. “Got any beer?”
His sister tapped a manicured fingernail against his hand. “You didn’t even try it.”
“Because there’s a flower floating in it.”
“It’s an edible flower. Did you know that some of the fancy grocery stores carry those in their herb section? It’s just this cute little box called edible flowers.”
Vincent stared at her. “Do I look like I would know that?”
Elena rolled her eyes and turned her attention to Tom and Jill. “Vincent here thinks that if he doesn’t grunt and scowl eighty times a day, we’ll all forget he’s a man.”
He lifted the glass to his face. Sniffed. It smelled like booze. That was promising. Vincent studied it more carefully, curious if there was a way to avoid the sugar rim. Nope.
He took a tentative sip.
“Well?” Elena asked, finally ripping her glare away from Tom. “What do you think?”
“It’s terrible,” he said.
Although, it wasn’t really. A little sweeter than he would have liked, and he’d have preferred a beer or a glass of red wine, but it was alcohol.
Tom’s hand found Jill’s back, and Vincent took another sip. Bigger this time.
“You do like the drink!” Elena said.
“Something like that,” he muttered.
The smell of familiar flowery perfume drew Vin’s attention to his grandmother, who materialized at his side with surprising speed considering her advanced years.
“Your mother got the wrong kind of prosciutto.”
“Nonna, there is no wrong kind of prosciutto,” Elena explained gently.
Vincent nodded, inclined for once to agree with his sister.
Nonna shook her head stubbornly. “No, she got it from that dodgy butcher on Staten Island when I specifically told her—”
Elena held up her hand. “Wait, why are either of you bringing prosciutto? I told you I was getting this catered.”
Nonna gave a furtive look over her shoulder. “Yes, I’ve seen your caterer. Wouldn’t know al dente pasta if it bit her in the ass.”
“Which is fine,” Elena explained through gritted teeth. “Because we’re not having Italian food.”
Nonna puffed up. “But we’re Italian.”
“Yes, but they’re not,” Elena said, gesturing at Jill and Tom. “And it’s their night, so I wanted to do something more traditionally American.”
“I’m sure we’ll love whatever you serve, Italian or not,” Tom said, earning beaming smiles from both Nonna and Elena.
“Vin, you got a sec?” Jill interrupted, dragging Vincent toward the kitchen. “I had a thought on the case.”
“What’s up?” he asked. “Tell me you’ve figured out who the hell killed Lenora Birch, because the higher-ups are starting to get—”
“No, I don’t have a freaking clue,” she said. “I just need a drink. I need a minute.”
“Need a minute from… the man you’re going to marry?”
“Mmm,” she murmured distractedly as she glanced over her shoulder and then dumped her drink down the drain.
Jill reached for his drink and followed suit.