Page 18 of The Wedding Crush

Before I reachthe vineyard staircase landing Friday evening, Dante is standing in the doorframe barefoot in jeans and a white T-shirt, grinning like a lovesick fool.

“So, your watch does work?” He laughs, pulling me up the last step into a brusque bro hug.

“Perhaps, if I’d been aware you were planning to propose, I might not have given so much weight to overshadowing Mother’s party with talk of Carina’s romantic trysts.”

Dante barks out a robust laugh, stepping back. He shakes his head at me, pressing his hands along my suit jacket.

“Man, this is what I miss about you. Marcello never shows up to chill, dressed to impress, and using phrases likeromantic trysts.”

“Glad to oblige.”

He’s still laughing at my expense but, secretly, I’m enjoying this exchange, too. We haven’t had much time for casual dinners and easy conversation. Tonight, feels like an overdue occasion.

Dante smiles this over-the-top smarmy smile as he reaches up with his free hand to loosen my tie, a strange pride emanating from him. “Look at us, two brothers getting together to break bread on a Friday night, laughing, and talking about our lives…”

“Thank you for the invitation,” I say, hoping his jovial attitude will stay the course of this evening.

He blows out an impressed breath then turns on his heel toward the door.

In the foyer, despite my refusal—multiple times—Dante insists on taking my jacket. After several minutes with him asserting, “You’re seriously going to keep your jacket and tie on the entire time you’re here? You know work ended hours ago, right?” I begrudgingly relent.

Mostly because I wouldn’t put it past him to escalate to my shoes and slacks if I continue pressing him.

Taking his advice, I neatly hang my coat on the hook, pull off my tie, and stuff it in my pocket.

As he weaves through the living room to the formal dining room off the kitchen, I unbutton my top button, then work my way to my sleeves, rolling them up my forearms.

Except, when I look up, I come full stop in front of his pinewood table fully dressed with four place settings—two facing sets on either side.

My shoulders slump as I slowly drag my focus from the flatware to my guilty brother.

This week, I’ve made multiple follow-up calls, and left zero voicemails for the same reason I’m here tonight.

I want to talk to him.

Alone.

This is supposed to be a quick chat over a simple meal. At the end of the night, we’ll have eaten, and he’ll have seen reason, leaving me to go back to worrying about the growth of our family businesses and whether jet-black hair dye is the ticket to getting back on the dating market.

Simple.

But before I can fix my mouth to ask any of the many questions barreling against the front of my mind, like who’s joining us and why, Morgan bursts through the swinging kitchen door.

“Oh my gosh, I didn’t realize you were here!” She sets a basket of sourdough bread in the center of the table and comes in for a full-body hug. “Thank you so much for coming. It really does mean a lot to us.”

“Thanks for having me.” I force a stilted smile as she bounces back on her heels, shoving her hands in the back pockets of her jeans.

She brightens, quick to fill the silence.

“Dante told me tortellini is your favorite, and I’ve got this amazing recipe from my mom…” She closes her eyes and moans. “Mm-mm-mm, I can’t wait for you to taste it.”

A smile tugs at the corners of my mouth.

“I know it will be delicious,” I say, still salty, though slightly less annoyed that our twosome is doubling. Flashing her a quick smile, I flit a squinted glance to Dante. “I’m sure it’ll be good enough to eattwoplates.”

He pokes his tongue into his cheek, inhaling.

As if on cue, the doorbell rings, and Morgan excuses herself to go welcome our mystery guest.

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