Page 55 of The Wedding Crush

For whom?

The nosy smile stretches wide on her red lips.

She fans out her hand across the lobby to the elevator bank where the grocery guy is waiting, too.

After I thank her, I rush over, just as the doors open, and the man nearly drops one of the bags.

“Here, let me help, you,” I say, hooking my tote over my shoulder, and leaning down to take one armful of bags from him.

As we step inside the spacious mirrored elevator, he releases a long breath.

“Thank you, sis. I thought this one was a goner.” An appreciative smile twists the lines of his rich brown skin. “I tell you, this guy must be having a fancy party, all the stuff he bought.”

Heat creeps up from my neck to my cheeks.

The entire way up to the twelfth floor and down the elegantly finished hallway to Stefano’s door, I’m silently praying I’m not crashing his second-chance romance. As the guy, who turns out to be super talkative and nice, knocks on the door, I hold my breath until I’m light-headed.

Then the door swings open on the picture of a certified bachelor with baseball blaring from the television.

A gasp escapes my lips.

Suddenly, my nerves and conclusion hopping make perfect sense. I’ve been to his family functions. His mother is like my new best friend. I planned his brother’s secret proposal to my best friend, and we’ve sat through several ChatVideos together now. But other than a couple glimpses of him listening to freaking Johnny Timmons in his car and talking to Ace, I’ve never witnessed Stefano Fortemani without his armor.

Not in any real way, at least.

But this version…

This shields-down, in-his-element, easy black T-shirt and jeans silver fox in his ultra-chic den?

Good Godthis is what a grown-up crush feels like.

Forget teenage dreams and bad boys. I want a sexy-ass full-grown man who owns real estate, a vineyard, and state-of-the-art, wildly expensive vacuum cleaners. I want to wind down with wine and cheese with the backdrop of sweeping city views in all directions. I want to memorize the sharp angles and lines of his obscenely beautiful face, run my hand through his messy salt-and-pepper curls while I gaze into his depthless dark eyes. For all that’s good and holy in this world, I just want this man who makes a costume change feel like foreplay.

“Avery?”

Shoot, I’m staring.

He presses his hands down his jeans, hanging loosely, appetizingly low around his strong hips.

My lungs constrict and my heart stutters, but I force myself to focus on his soft gaze.

“I carried some bags,” I say, but it lands with as much conviction as Baby carrying a watermelon before Johnny Castle banned her from corners.

Speaking of corners, the edges of his mouth lift.

He doesn’t even bother hiding his smile.

What am I going to do though? I sound like a complete idiot.

A laugh trickles pathetically out me as Stefano steps back to allow us inside to drop off the bags.

As he tips the delivery guy and walks him to the door, I briefly take in his space.

Heaped mahogany bookshelves and stately furniture fuse a warm palette with fine finishes and cool blues and grays. Natural light filters through floor-to-ceiling windows onto gray oak floors and two-tone area rugs. It’s modern-age luxury, single living meets timeless comfort and escape.

It’s him.

The door slams shut behind me.

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