Page 13 of The Wedding Crush

It’s also why we’re here now to review the food and logistics with their attentive, andverypatient staff.

“Should we maybe work our way over—”

“Oh. My.God!” Nichelle interrupts with Sir Mix-a-Lot “Baby Got Back” levels of comedic seriousness.

“What?” I laugh, praying this will be a quick story.

“My book club has hijacked our group chat to discuss my wedding.” Nichelle pauses for dramatic effect, I’m guessing, waiting for my reaction.

“That’s awesome. Is Sydney going to be able to attend after all?” I ask, putting an upbeat, hopeful spin on whatever she says next.

What’s one more book club member when we’re still rearranging tables and adding place cards, before we give a final headcount to the staff?

Nichelle closes her eyes, centering herself before she seems to regroup.

“No, no, you don’t understand what this means.”

Lifting my chin, I give her my full attention.

Tired bones, wine, and all that.

“My book club? It’s made up of the best that introverts have to offer, and they’re talking about how you curated this classy, sophisticated high tea for Napa’s upper crust,” she explains, accurately assuming I’m still not following. “These women are not on the chatty, hot takes for breakfast, lunch, and dinner social media platforms. They’re pretty curated bookish pictures, and mounting TBR lists. Now, suddenly, they’re discussing which of those fine-ass Fortemani brothers are still on the market and lavish weddings…”

My brain stalls halfway through that last sentence.

Fine-ass Fortemani brothers?

I blink way too many times to be natural.

My pulse pounds in my neck, heat prickling over my skin, for twoverygood reasons.

First, why are these introverted insta-curators discussing Dante’s brothers almost two weeks later? I thought all the buzz was about tea parties and weddings. Stefano and Marcello were guests. Secondly, and this part is truly baffling, is there really a competition between a young player and a tall, broody—albeit grumpy—silver fox with undeniably big,um…hands?

Why did I have to call him a silver fox?

Why did I walk up on him in that car listening to Johnny Timmons—who is problematic for so many reasons?

Every inch of me softened because here was this man dealing with his ex-wife’s hot girl summer, and there he was looking for tips on getting back out there. Of course, the man’s faith in marriage is shook.

He’d looked so adorably awkward, stammering, mortified that I’d heard the words “dating” and “sex.”

Jesus, the way his eyes had darkened, and he’d frozen when I touched him.

Again, why did I jab my finger into his starched suit then recoil when I was met with steel?

He nearly had me fooled, too.

I get this overwhelming urge to grab Nichelle’s phone, and tap a quick message to her bookish friends, telling them to move it along. The product packaging and branding is on point, but what’s inside leaves so much to be desired.

But then I come to my senses, mumbling a decidedly ambivalent, “Aah, okay…”

Whatever that means.

The thing about Stefano Fortemani that’s so infuriating is, physically speaking, he’s appealing to the eye.

I never said he wasn’t attractive.

Indisputably, the man is a striking, biologically designed specimen. If “chestnuts roasting on a mid-summer open fire” was a color, there would be his intense, penetrating eyes, stoking a fire straight through me. I’m talking broad-chested, clean-cut with soft silver curls, a square jaw, and ridiculously long eyelashes. Sadly, his entire wardrobe is relegated to suits in varying shades of black, gray, and navy, but he’s well-dressed. Impeccably so, in tailored suits that mold to his thick frame in the most elegant, refined way that screams words like “expensive,” “high-powered,” “smart,” “smells so good, I want to peel off every yard of fabric and thread with my teeth…”

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