Chapter 9: Chapter 9

PRESLEY

“I heard that!” Presley yelled.

Her neighbor flowed into the room after her, Elio and Santino following with dazed expressions on their faces. Presley rolled her eyes and took the martini glasses from the woman, pouring herself a drink. Florence tended to have that kind of effect on people.

“Florence Deveraux,” her neighbor said, holding out a manicured hand to Elio. “Pleasure to meet you, gentlemen.”

“Elio Foretti. Pleasure is all mine, Miss Deveraux.” He kissed the back of the hand she offered him.

“Oh, it could be.” She winked at him. “I do yoga every day.

“Florence! Quit hitting on them,” Presley groaned.

Florence gave Presley a sly look and turned to Santino.

“Santino Agosti. Nice to meet you.” He smiled at her.

“Well, tall, dark, and handsome, shall we have a cocktail?” She sauntered over to the island, her robe trailing behind her dramatically, snagging the pitcher and filling her glass before handing it back to a mortified Presley.

“This cannot be happening,” Presley muttered as she sipped her martini.

Santino and Elio were grinning like idiots at her provocative neighbor who’d just barged in to ask about her sex life. Presley thought fondly of crawling back into bed and never coming out as she poured a drink for both men.

She slid the glasses over to them and shrugged. “You’re going to need one of these if she’s here longer than five minutes.”

“I’m not that bad,” Florence said as she ran her red-lacquered fingertips down Elio’s arm. “Plus, this one is kind of cute.”

“I swear to God, Flo. I will squirt you with the sink sprayer,” Presley snapped.

“So, cranky pants, I guess we aren’t celebrating you getting laid?”

“Out!” Presley shouted, pointing at the door. “Take your wicked vodka and go.”

“And miss breakfast? No way.” Florence winked at Elio.

“What?” Presley squeaked. “No, no, no, no!”

“What?” Santino asked, looking between the two women.

There was another knock, and Florence made a show of getting up and stretching her long legs in front of Elio. She caught his eye and raised an arched eyebrow.

“Vegas showgirl,” she purred.

“Like a hundred years ago, you old cow!” Presley rolled her eyes and ate an olive.

“Jealous bitch,” Florence snapped playfully as she sauntered away, throwing a wink over her shoulder at Elio.

A flurry of voices came from the entryway, and Presley groaned.

“I’m sorry. Get out while you can. That’s all I’m going to say.”

“No way.” Santino grinned at her. “I’m staying for this.”

“I warned you,” she hissed, knocking back the rest of her drink.

“Press, sweetheart! There are so many men outside. It’s like a buffet!” squealed a male voice.

A pair of men came into the kitchen, carrying a casserole dish and a basket covered by a tea towel.

“Oh! Hello, boys,” the other man said. “Florence told us a ~Soprano~s episode was being filmed, but it looked more like a sex tape when we saw who answered the door. So, we figured everyone might be a little hungry.”

Presley groaned and put her head down on the island. She was having a nightmare. That had to be it. She was still in bed, and this was all a horrible dream. When she looked up, everyone was still there staring at her.

“Ted, Dan, I’d like you to meet Santino Agosti and Elio Foretti,” she said, waving a hand at the two Italians. “Gentlemen, my very gay and very nosy neighbors, Ted and Dan Masters.”

“She’s mad,” Florence said as she peeked in the basket Ted was holding.

He smacked her hand.

“Why are you mad, sweetheart?” Dan said as he set down the casserole dish and rubbed her back.

“I hate you all. Go home,” Presley mumbled.

“I have muffins,” Ted sang.

Presley straightened up. “What kind of muffins?”

“That’s our girl.” Ted grinned. “Let’s eat, and you can tell us all about the man buffet.”

“Chocolate chip?” Presley sniffed the air.

“Of course.” Ted winked at the men.

“What else did you bring?” Florence asked.

“The essentials,” Dan said as he pulled out a bottle of champagne and a glass bottle of orange juice. “Mimosas, anyone?”

Everyone raised their hands. Santino popped the champagne and handed it off to Ted, who made a show of making them mimosas while Presley got out plates and utensils. She practically danced in delight when she saw the large strata in the baking dish.

“What’s in it this time?” Her mouth was watering.

“Spinach, mushroom, ham, gruyère, and sourdough,” Dan announced proudly.

“I love you again.”

“I love you too. Now, tell us about why this brooding, half-naked Italian was answering your door this morning,” he said with a wink to Santino. “Not that we’re complaining.”

Presley choked on her mimosa, glaring at them all as Santino patted her back.