She shakes her head. “This is a military operation. Unless you’ve been through boot camp, it’s best to stay out of the fray when they’re in setup mode.”

“I wouldn’t dream of interfering, then.”

Solange gestures at the bags and containers. “What’s all this anyway?”

“Food, obviously,” her mother says. “We’re going to need something to eat while we wait.”

“Nothing too heavy,” Lina’s mom says. “Sandwiches. A little salad. Some fruit.”

Solange groans. “This isn’t a cookout, for God’s sake.”

“Shhh,” I tell her, gently smacking the top of her hand. “If they want to share their gifts with us, who are you to complain?”

Her mouth falls open, but her eyes are sparkling with amusement. “Did you just hit me?”

“It was a love tap, that’s all.” I cringe on the inside when the L word slips out. “I meant a friend tap, of course.”

“Thanks for the clarification,” she says, her voice dripping with sarcasm as she gives me an eye roll in excruciatingly slow motion.

“Who’s this?” Mariana says pleasantly, her gaze landing on me.

“This is Dean,” Solange says. “He’s Max’s best friend.”

The descriptor bugs me. Is that all I am to her? A guy she’s doing a favor for because he’s Max’s best friend.

Maybe she sees something in the set of my expression because she hastily adds, “And my friend too, of course. I’m helping him with a project at work, so he was around when Natalia called.”

Mariana tilts her chin up. “Dean? Why does that . . .” Her eyes widen in recognition, then she crosses the floor and takes my hand. “How are you doing, filho?”

Rey, who’s already helping himself to food, shakes his head. “Subtlety is not your strong suit, Ma.”

There’s sympathy in Mariana’s expression, and suddenly I’m rethinking my decision to be here. It’s obvious she knows about the canceled wedding, though she didn’t say so outright. It never occurred to me that anyone in Solange’s family would know or care, but Lina helped plan the wedding, so it must have come up, even in passing.

“I’m fine,” is all I can muster. I mean, what else is there to say?

Solange’s mother places a hand on her hip and inspects my face; she’s holding some kind of hors d’oeuvre. “Você precisa de comida, filho. Está muito magro.”

“I’m sorry?”

She shakes her head as though she’s silently chastising herself. “Food. You need food. You’re too tall to be so slim.” She puts out her free hand. “Come. We’ll get you something to put more meat on your bones.”

I glance at Solange, looking for guidance on how to respond.