My Family Stole My Wedding Day, So I Stole His Bride-to-Be novel · Chapter 6 of 24

Chapter 6: The Boathouse

The Ferrante boathouse sits at the end of a gravel path on the bay.

It has a slate roof, a loft and one door that sticks.

Gemma shoulder-checked it open and flicked on a lamp.

"My grandfather built it for fishing," she said. "My father hasn't been here since he sold the boat. Nobody will look for us."

"Nobody has to," I said. "I have no cards, no keys and no job."

"You have a bride and a roof. Take the win."

There was a small kitchen with a two-burner stove, a couch under a quilt, and a ladder up to a loft.

I stood at the foot of the ladder and looked up.

"How many beds?"

"One," Gemma said.

"I'll take the couch."

"It's January. The heat is the stove, and the loft is the warm part." She was already climbing. "Don't be a martyr, Tessaro. We'll put a pillow in the middle."

"A pillow."

"A very firm one."

We ate canned tomato soup standing up in the kitchen, with crackers.

She told me about her grandfather and the fish he never caught.

I told her about the first time Nonna let me touch the Date Book, at nine years old, with clean hands, and how I thought it was a holy relic.

She laughed at that, a real laugh, low and surprised, and I realized I had been waiting to hear it.

By ten we were both in the loft, in the dark, on opposite sides of a folded quilt and a pillow.

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