Page 106 of The Wedding Crush

Horribly, but with my whole chest.

Soon, the army, the sergeant, the chef, and the visibly cold model—shrinkage—join in, singing about us being each other’s loving girls.

The entire scene is ridiculous—and so cringy. I’m glad we’re not in public, spewing this audible venom onto innocent bystanders.

As we feast on delicious Italian fare with our feet soaking in lavender Epsom salt and strange men’s hands groping our shoulders, Chiara leans in close to my ear.

“The bachelor party is tomorrow, right?”

I hesitate, unsure where she’s going with this question, then nod.

“What if I told you I’ve got a plan to blow the cover right off this thing?” she whispers.

It’s a sweet sentiment with the slightest bit of edge to her tone. The gleam in her eyes is filled with confidence, readiness. It’s a battle cry of solidarity.

In Sister Circle code, it translates to:We ride at dawn.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Stefano

Atall, bulkyguy in full camo fatigues gear and a red weathered 49ers cap steps out from behind the register.

“Richter party?” he calls out.

The group of guys waiting in front of us excitedly stand, shoving and guffawing as they approach the guy, who introduces himself fittingly, as Riker, who looks like he’s been out to the island on a few stints. He begins a safety and personal liability briefing, breaking down the rules as he outfits them with paintball markers, hoppers, air tanks, and battle masks.

I’m straining to hear what he says about the Capture the Flag game they’re playing when Jameson elbows me.

The corner of his mouth hitches up. “We’re next. Are you ready to come hard?”

“Wow, how long have you been waiting to drop that gem?”

He barks out a laugh.

In a nutshell, this is how life’s going. I’m in love with a woman who’s slowly distancing herself from me. And now, I’ve signed a waiver to play a potentially deadly game with an armed man-child who never misses an opportunity to make an ejaculatory joke.

Great.

Over his shoulder, I glare at Marco, who thought beating each other with paint-filled pellets flying at 300 feet per second was a brilliant idea for Dante’s last hurrah as a single man.

He looks deliberately at me and fist-bumps Jameson.

In total, there are eight of us. Including Dante and these two Neanderthals, we’ve got Marcello, Mike, Everett, me, and thankfully, Dylan is here to relieve me of a full day of toxic masculinity.

“Remind me to shoot below the waist,” Dylan says low enough so I’m the only one who hears.

I chuckle.

We watch as the other group is escorted out the side door to the fields.

As soon as the door closes behind them, Jameson turns to Dante. I figure he’s about to make another adolescent joke, so I’m surprised when he nudges my brother’s shoulder and says, “Two weeks until the big day, huh?”

Dante drags in a long breath, grinning. “I wish it was tomorrow.”

Jameson nods. “That’s real cool man. I’m happy for you.”

As Dante thanks him, I’m considering whether I rushed to judgment with this guy. He hurt my sister years ago. Now, they’re paired for the ceremony entrance dances, and she hasn’t complained, so maybe they’ve come to a truce. She’s dating his best friend, after all.

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